


Somewhere Back of the Sun

by enigmaticblue



Series: Sun 'Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-10
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-11 00:52:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 71,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/106420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmaticblue/pseuds/enigmaticblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By the time Dean stops Lucifer, it's already too late. A post-apocalyptic tale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rural South Dakota, Mid-Summer 2016

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my beta, thomasina75, who found the plot-holes, brainstormed, and generally held my hand through the process of writing this story. If it's any good, she's a big part of the reason why.
> 
> This story was written in large part before the last half of S5 aired, which is a good part of the reason that it's AU and non-canon-compliant. You'll understand when you get there. But I pretty much felt free to throw any part of canon out after 5.03 that I felt like.
> 
> And, finally, this story is not told chronologically. The headers are important.

Sam trudged down the road under a clear blue sky. Grass and weeds fought for dominance in the cracks in the asphalt, the occasional dandelion adding a bright spot of color. The air was thick with humidity, so thick Sam almost felt as though he was swimming. The sounds of crickets, frogs, and the rustling of wind through the tall grass lining the road were a constant accompaniment.

 

Sam slapped at a mosquito on his arm, then wiped the sweat out of his right eye and under his eye patch with the hem of his blue t-shirt. Tripping over a rough spot, he cursed and hitched his pack higher on his shoulder.

 

The sound of a branch breaking filled the air like a gunshot, and Sam reached for the hunting knife in his belt sheath. Pushing hair out of his face, Sam turned a slow circle, keeping his good eye open for potential threats. The crickets and frogs had gone silent; the sound of the wind turned eerie now. He blinked rapidly, momentarily blinded by sweat.

 

His vision cleared as he heard the sound of a gun being cocked behind him, and Sam whirled to face his foe, knife at the ready.

 

For a moment, he simply stared at the long barrel of the rifle and the boy holding it. He was about sixteen, his thin face set in grim lines. He held the rifle competently, his grip neither too tight nor too loose. The boy’s jeans stopped a couple of inches above the toes of his boots, and the oversized t-shirt hung over thin shoulders that hadn’t yet broadened.

 

A local who knew how to use a gun and could drop him before he got close enough to use his knife, Sam thought.

 

Sam put the knife on the ground slowly and raised his hands. “I’m not here to harm anyone.”

 

“What’s your business?” The boy stepped closer, his dark eyes hard and serious. Sam felt his stomach twist with nerves, and he searched for the right words to defuse the situation.

 

“I’m Sam Winchester. I heard my brother lived in the area. Dean Winchester?”

 

The boy stared at Sam, and his eyes went wide with shock. “Yeah. He does.”

 

Sam cleared his throat awkwardly. “Can you tell me if I’m on the right track?”

 

The boy let the muzzle of the rifle drop. “I can show you. It’s just down the road.”

 

“You mind if I get my knife?” Sam asked, lowering his hands.

 

The boy considered the question, then nodded shortly, backing up a couple of steps. His knuckles turned white around the rifle, only easing up when Sam had safely sheathed the knife. Sam picked up his pack from where he’d dropped it and resituated it on his shoulder.

 

Sam fell into step next to the boy, thinking that he looked oddly familiar. He had the same bowlegged, rolling walk as Dean, moving gracefully, purposefully. His jaw had the same set as Dean’s, his eyes the same watchful quality.

 

Suddenly, Sam remembered Changelings, one of Dean’s old flames, and a child like enough to Dean to be his son. “You’re Ben.”

 

Ben shrugged and tucked the rifle under his arm, seeming to relax slightly. “I didn’t think you’d recognize me.”

 

Sam shook his head; it had been about eight years since he’d seen the kid, but the shadow of the child was present in the face of the young man. “It’s been a while, but you still remind me of Dean.”

 

Ben tugged on the hem of his t-shirt, a black so faded it was gray. “Yeah, I guess.”

 

“So, you’re living with Dean now?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Your mom, too?” Sam asked.

 

“No.”

 

Sam caught Ben’s tone, and looked away, focusing on the hawk circling above the trees. “I’m sorry.”

 

Ben shrugged. “It happens. A lot of people died.”

 

Sam touched the scar tissue running down his left cheek, then self-consciously wiped his hand on the seat of his jeans, the rough calluses on his fingers catching on the frayed material.

 

“You walk all the way?” Ben finally asked.

 

Sam shook his head. “The car broke down about a mile down the road. Ran out of gas.”

 

“We probably have some back at the house. Cas will know if we have it to spare.”

 

Sam didn’t comment on the mention of Cas; he’d seen for himself how devoted the angel was to Dean, and it came as no surprise that Castiel was still around.

 

As they rounded a bend in the road, an old farmhouse came into view. Sam thought it looked like something out of a painting with its two stories, complete with gables and front porch. The siding was weathered, and the cream colored paint was peeling, but the windows were intact, and the porch looked solid. It was certainly nicer than most of the places Sam had been staying recently, and it suggested that Dean had landed on his feet.

 

The wind rustled through the leaves of the huge, ancient oak, and a chicken scratched in the dirt and scrub grass in its shade. An ancient, half-rusted Willys Jeep sat parked out front, but Sam suspected that it would run smoothly.

 

The front door squeaked open, and a man stepped onto the front porch. Sam didn’t recognize him immediately. He was barefoot and wearing heavy brown canvas pants and a worn blue t-shirt. As they approached, and Sam was able to focus better, he recognized Castiel.

 

Cas’ hair was longer, and he had thick stubble on his face, but he wore the same neutral expression Sam remembered so well.

 

Ben accompanied Sam up to the front door, and Castiel looked Sam up and down. “Hello, Sam.”

 

“Castiel.”

 

Castiel’s face creased in a smile and he laughed freely. “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard that name. How are you?”

 

“Fine.” Sam’s fingers worried the edge of his eye patch, then rubbed the scar tissue that ran down his cheek. “Good to see you again.”

 

“Are you here to visit your brother?”

 

“Yeah, if he’s around.”

 

Castiel looked at Ben. “Henry is out back, Ben. Would you mind checking on him?”

 

“Yeah, okay.” Ben passed the rifle to Castiel and trotted off around the back of the house.

 

“Is Dean here?” Sam asked.

 

Castiel shook his head. “I’m sorry, no. Dean’s out running an errand. Would you like to come in?”

 

Sam didn’t see any other option, so he followed Castiel inside. The faded, threadbare carpet that ran down the length of the hall did nothing to muffle the squawking floorboards, but it was clean. Sam peeked into a living room filled with similarly worn furniture and piles of books as they walked down the hall.

 

The walls were bare of decoration, and the paint was faded and cracking, but the wood paneling lining the bottom half of the hallway was in good repair. Sam stepped over a stuffed animal lying in the middle of the hall and followed Castiel to the back of the house.

 

The hallway ended at a warm, bright kitchen, with what looked like an ancient wooden picnic table taking up most of the space in the center of the room. There was a straight-backed wooden chair on one end, and a padded chair on the other. The large window over the sink was open, but there were no curtains to flutter in the faint breeze.

 

Sam felt entirely out of his depth; the house felt homey, warm, even inviting—and nothing reminded him of Dean. There was no indication that Dean had ever been here as far as he could see.

 

“How is he?” Sam finally asked when Castiel seemed disinclined to make conversation, setting his bag on the floor, next to the table.

 

“Dean?”

 

“Yeah.” Sam wanted to ask who else he’d be interested in, but he reined in his irritation. Now was not the time to piss Castiel off. “Is he okay?”

 

“He hurt his leg,” Castiel replied. “But he’s fine otherwise.”

 

Sam nodded. “Good. Great.” He fingered the scar under his eye again, remembering how many people had been maimed during the apocalypse—as many people as had been killed, if not more.

 

“Would you like something to drink?” Castiel offered, gesturing to the fridge.

 

Sam was aware that most people didn’t have much more than water to offer. “Water is fine.”

 

“Beer?” Castiel countered with a smug smile.

 

Sam’s good eye widened. “If you’ve got it.”

 

Castiel continued smiling and poured a measure into a mason jar. “It’s mead, and Dean assures me that it’s not as good as beer, but we have an abundance.”

 

“Thanks.” Sam accepted the jar with a smile, looking at the amber liquid. “Mead, huh?”

 

“One of the locals brews it,” Castiel responded, pouring a measure into a blue glass. “We often receive a bottle as compensation.”

 

“Compensation for what?” Sam asked, curiosity getting the better of him. He took a seat on one of the benches that lined the long table.

 

Castiel shrugged, sitting down on the bench across from Sam. “Our services.”

 

Sam would have pressed for more information, but the sound of the front door opening and closing interrupted him. Dean’s voice drifted down the hall; he sounded happy, happier than Sam had heard him for a long time.

 

“Go finish your chores,” Dean called. “We’ll be eating dinner soon.”

 

Sam rose to his feet, his hands twitching at his sides; Castiel had been welcoming enough, but after their last fight, and his long absence, Sam didn’t know how Dean would greet him.

 

Dean’s uneven footsteps echoed on the creaky floorboards, and when Dean appeared in the doorway, Sam realized that he was holding his breath.

 

For a moment, Sam thought he was seeing his father; Dean’s red-gold beard was thick and just beginning to show silver, the deepening lines around his eyes adding character, but little in the way of age.

 

The way he stood, the way he moved, the beard, even the clothes—worn jeans, threadbare t-shirt, heavy work boots—reminded Sam of John Winchester. It was almost like seeing a ghost.

 

“Cas? Has—” Dean froze as he caught sight of Sam. Dean looked him up and down, although he made no move to come closer. “Sam.”

 

Sam took half a step toward Dean, then stopped. “Hey.” He swallowed, uncertain of how to continue.

 

“When did you get here?” Dean asked, his expression neutral, neither welcoming nor forbidding.

 

Sam shrugged. “A little while ago. Not long.”

 

“Sit down, Dean.” Castiel’s tone made it more of a suggestion than an order, but Dean sat in the padded chair that Castiel held out for him. “Do you want something to drink?”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, that would be good.” Dean hadn’t looked away from Sam. “Are you, uh, just passing through?”

 

Sam sat down again, rubbing his hands on the legs of his jeans. “I—I don’t have anywhere else I have to be.”

 

“Good. Then you can stay for a while,” Castiel nodded, as though it had been decided. “We have enough for one more for dinner.”

 

Sam stiffened; he’d been paying his own way for the last six years, paying in blood and sweat. “I don’t want to be a burden. I’ve got supplies in the car.”

 

“Where’s your car?” Dean asked. “I didn’t see it out front.”

 

“I ran out of gas about two miles up the road,” Sam confessed. “I thought I could make it.”

 

“You wouldn’t have found any gas in the area,” Dean replied, stretching his left leg out and propping it on the bench next to Castiel, who rested a hand on Dean’s thigh. “We get a shipment in about once every two weeks, and most of that gets used for farm equipment. They won’t sell to a non-local.”

 

“We have a couple of gallons to spare,” Castiel offered. “We could walk it up.”

 

Dean put his feet back on the floor. “Yeah, that’s no problem.”

 

“Dean…”

 

They shared a look, and Dean sighed and put his foot back up. “Yeah, Cas’ll go with you.  As he keeps reminding me, I’ve got a bum leg.”

 

Sam forced his hand not to go to the scar on his left cheek. “Yeah. I get that.”

 

Dean’s face softened for a moment. “I guess you do. Cas?”

 

“We’ll get it taken care of, Dean.” Cas rose and pushed his glass of mead towards Dean. “You’d better finish it up.”

 

“You know me,” Dean replied, and Sam realized that while Castiel might, Sam didn’t any longer. He had no idea how much Dean might be drinking these days, or what had happened to his leg, or when things had changed between Dean and Cas.

 

Castiel pressed Dean’s shoulder as he passed in a gesture that appeared both fond and familiar to Sam as an onlooker. “We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

 

“Dinner?”

 

“On the stove,” Castiel replied with an affectionate smile as he pulled on socks and scuffed leather boots. “Don’t worry about it.”

 

Dean made a face at the large stock pot on the ancient stove. “It’s not lentil again, is it?”

 

“Lentils are good for you,” Castiel intoned as though responding to a familiar argument, although his smirk made his tone less effective.

 

Dean snorted and flipped Castiel off.

 

“Just for that, you can forget about dessert tonight.”

 

Dean perked up. “Dessert?”

 

“I said you can forget it.” Cas grinned and motioned to Sam, whose stomach was twisting with something that felt a lot like envy.

 

Castiel led Sam out of the house. Sam glanced back over his shoulder as they walked down the gravel drive, and he saw the curtains twitch in one of the upper story windows. Doing a quick mental inventory, Sam jogged to catch up with Castiel, who was striding down the drive purposefully.

 

“Cas, how many people are living at that house?”

 

Cas raised an eyebrow. “Is there a reason you want to know?”

 

Sam found he couldn’t read Castiel any better now than he had in the past, but he thought that Castiel might be amused. “Dean’s my brother,” Sam replied wearily, trying to keep any sign his jealousy out of his voice. “I care about him.”

 

“You have a funny way of showing it.” The accusation in Castiel’s voice had heat rising to Sam’s face.

 

“I heard Dean was dead.” Sam knew he sounded bitter. “How was I supposed to know he was still alive?”

 

Castiel remained silent for a long moment. “I take it Andrew Brokofsky found you.”

 

Cas walked on his blind side, and Sam had to crane his neck to see Castiel’s face. “Dean sent him?”

 

“I did,” Castiel corrected him. “I thought—I thought we would have seen you before now if you’d known where we were.”

 

The moment’s inattention to where he was putting his feet had Sam tripping over an uneven patch in the pavement, and Castiel automatically put out a hand to steady him. Sam flushed deeply—out of shame and a sense of failure.

 

A crow called out overhead, and he glanced up; Sam still wasn’t used to hearing birds again.

 

“Did Bobby know about Dean being alive?”

 

“He did.”

 

Castiel sounded neutral, but Sam knew better. If he hadn’t been so stubborn, so angry, so _fucking guilty_, he might have called Bobby sooner. But the news of Bobby’s death had followed just a couple of years after the news of Dean’s, and Sam hadn’t had any reason to doubt Kevin when he’d claimed Dean was killed when the fucking gulch collapsed on top of him.

 

It had made sense to Sam; Dean stopped Lucifer and got himself killed in the process. Sam hadn’t been there to save him.

 

“Who told you about Dean?” Castiel finally asked, breaking the awkward silence.

 

“Kevin Sorenson. He said he was there.”

 

“He was.”

 

Castiel’s tone left no doubt that whatever Kevin’s role had been, Castiel hadn’t received a good impression of the man, and Sam had to admit that his opinion had gone downhill as well.

 

“Did he know?” he asked quietly.

 

Castiel shook his head. “I don’t know.”

 

Sam stopped in his tracks, glaring at Castiel until the other man turned to face him. “Don’t lie to me.”

 

“He didn’t know that Dean was alive.” Castiel’s face was expressionless. “But he didn’t stick around to find out.” Castiel moved closer so that he was chest to chest with Sam. “Are you going to want revenge? Are you going to leave?”

 

Sam swallowed. “I have enough blood on my hands. I need—” He broke off, unsure of how to explain that he needed honest work, work that didn’t require maiming and killing.

 

“There’s plenty to keep you busy around here,” Castiel said, beginning to walk again. “Honest work, if you want it.”

 

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “Can I ask you a question?”

 

“You can ask.”

 

“Are you still an angel?”

 

Castiel just smiled.

 

~~~~~

 

Dean waited until he heard the front door close behind Sam and Cas before he rose, wincing at his creaking bones. He lifted the lid on the pot, the rich smell of tomato and smoked ham hitting his nose. With an expert eye, Dean assessed tonight’s soup: ham and bean, not lentil.

 

At this point, Dean knew all the incarnations of soup; it was an easy, cheap meal that would feed a lot of people at once. Ham and bean was infinitely better than lentil.

 

Smirking, Dean put the lid back on and began poking through the cupboards, knowing that Cas would have hidden whatever dessert there was from the kids. Opening the fifth cabinet, Dean caught sight of two pies, and he took a deep breath, smelling buttery crust and tart fruit.

 

It was raspberry season, and that meant Maryanne Olsen’s raspberry pies. Although she was willing to believe that he and Cas could take care of half a dozen kids, she still believed that they needed a mother’s influence—and that included the two of them. Since that meant that Dean got pie and other baked goods on a regular basis, he wasn’t about to argue.

 

Dean shut the cupboard door and closed his eyes, thinking of Sam. He looked rough, really rough, like he hadn’t had a shower or a decent night’s sleep in weeks, let alone a good meal. And his eye—

 

Dean pushed the heels of his hands into his own eyes. Sam had touched the scar under his left eye as though he hadn’t had the eye patch for long. Part of him wanted to find out what had happened and make it right, but those days were long over.

 

Dean had other responsibilities now, other people to see to.

 

“Papa Dean?”

 

Out of long practice, Dean controlled his startle response; the little ones weren’t heavy enough to make any noise on the old floorboards, and they didn’t wear shoes in the summer.

 

“Yeah, kiddo?” He turned to face Ryan and his sister, Cora. The boy was wearing nothing but a pair of ancient gray gym shorts that had once belonged to Ben; Cora wore only an old red t-shirt that acted as a smock.

 

“Who was the man who came?” Ryan’s dark, somber eyes watched Dean for any hint of lies; Cora had shoved her thumb in her mouth, a nervous habit that he and Cas hadn’t been able to break yet.

 

Dean winced, knowing that Ryan especially would have reason to question the presence of strangers. “That was my brother, Ryan. He wanted to visit.” He sat down at the kitchen table, watching as Ryan approached cautiously, Cora’s hand still held tightly in his own.

 

“Is he a pirate?” Cora asked, briefly removing her thumb from her mouth.

 

Dean chuckled. “Because of the eye patch? No. He’s not a pirate.”

 

Ryan remained unconvinced, his thin, dark face skeptical. Cora let go of her brother’s hand and held her arms up to Dean, who picked her up and settled the little girl on his lap. She was only four and didn’t remember having any other parents but him and Cas.

 

Cora put her arms around his neck and pressed her face into his shoulder. “Hey, princess,” he murmured. “What’s wrong?”

 

Her voice was muffled by the fabric of his t-shirt, and Dean rocked her back and forth; he was an expert at deciphering children’s words at this point. “No one’s taking you away,” he assured her. “You know how Ryan’s your brother, and how he takes care of you?”

 

Dean felt her nod against his neck. “Well, that’s how I took care of Sam, and now he’s visiting.”

 

“How come you didn’t talk about him?” Ryan asked suspiciously, shifting from foot to foot.

 

“Because we had a fight.” Dean eyed Ryan with a smirk. “What? You thought I’d be able to get rid of you?” He reached out to poke the boy in the ribs, and Ryan squirmed away with a giggle. “Do you know how hard it is to get rid of a troublemaker?”

 

“I’m not a troublemaker!” Ryan protested.

 

Cora raised her head from Dean’s shoulder and watched them with bright eyes, dark curls framing a chubby face the color of caramel. “Then stop telling your sister that you might have to leave, because I’ll tell you right now: it’ll happen over my dead body.”

 

Ryan threw his arms around Dean’s neck, and Dean simply held both of them, wishing that he didn’t have to soothe his kids’ fears so often.

 

He released both of them at the same time. “I think Ben’s out back. Would you send him inside? I think it’ll be a while before Cas is back, and we’ll wait for him and Sam for dinner.”

 

They both ran outside immediately, no questions or complaints, and Dean only wished that he could be so resilient. Glancing at the pot on the stove, Dean thought about how he was supposed to feed Sam in addition to everyone else. No one had ever gone hungry in their house, but there were times they were scraping the bottom of the pot, and it was rare that anybody ate their fill, other than the little ones.

 

Dean knew how his brother could eat, and keeping him fed, along with everyone else…

 

“Hey, Dad.”

 

“Ben. Any luck today?”

 

Ben was growing out of his jeans again, which meant a trip to the city soon to get him something that fit. He was growing so fast, they just couldn’t keep up with him.

 

Ben shrugged and sat down across from Dean. “Not really. I didn’t see anything worth shooting.”

 

Dean nodded and thought about all the mouths that needed feeding. “Would you mind going out again tomorrow?”

 

Ben shook his head. “We’re going to need the extra meat. We usually can get enough canned goods.”

 

“Yeah.” Dean rubbed his forehead, trying to will away the tension headache forming behind his eyes.

 

“Is Sam sticking around?”

 

“That’s a good question,” Dean admitted. “Hell if I know.”

 

Ben looked down at the table, tracing the grain with a long finger. “We can probably manage it. I’ll hunt more. If we bag a few deer, maybe some turkey and quail, we’ll be okay through the winter.”

 

There was a long pause before Ben added, “Not like then. It won’t be like then, Dad.”

 

“I know.”

 

“What about you and Cas?”

 

Dean raised his eyebrows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“Come on, Dad. It’s not like he knew about you guys.”

 

Dean shrugged. “We’ve been together for what? Eight years now? We don’t stop being together just because my brother shows up in town.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Dean glanced up, looking into his son’s face. Ben had taken on a lot of responsibility out of necessity. He was the oldest, and although Dean tried to ensure that he didn’t end up with the sort of burden Dean had had, Dean knew he leaned heavily on Ben.

 

“You’ve done good work, son.”

 

Ben met his eyes and smiled slowly, sweetly, the expression Dean loved; it reminded him of when Ben had been young and had still worshipped Dean as his hero.

 

Dean grinned at his boy. “Maryanne brought over raspberry pies.”

 

Ben laughed. “Awesome.”


	2. Sioux Falls, South Dakota, Early 2011

The deep, hacking cough woke Dean, and it took him a moment to realize that the sound came from Bobby, and not Ben. They had both been sick with the same virus, or whatever the hell it was, for far too long.

 

Dean pushed himself up from his pallet on the floor next to Castiel, wincing as sore, tight muscles made themselves felt. He limped painfully into the dining room, where they had moved Bobby’s room. “Hey, you okay? You need anything?”

 

“I’m fine, Dean.” Bobby’s gruff tones told Dean that he was treading on thin ice. “It’s just a damn cough.”

 

Dean snorted. “Yeah, right. The cough you’ve had for a month now. You want me to get you anything?”

 

“Go back to your angel.”

 

Dean fought the smile that formed, but didn’t quite manage it. “Fine. Holler if you need anything.”

 

“If I need anything, I’ll get it my own damn self.”

 

Dean hid a sigh, knowing that Bobby wasn’t fine, and that there was nothing he could do about it.

 

“Sure.” Dean went back to his pallet in the living room; heat was precious, and there wasn’t enough of it to warm the whole house. Bobby couldn’t manage stairs, so they had closed up the second floor as best they could to trap the heat. He and Castiel had taken spots on the floor in the living room, close to the fire, if only because they were best able to care for it. From there, they could hear any sounds of distress from Bobby in the dining room, or Ben in the study.

 

Castiel was sitting up, poking at the embers and throwing another log on the dying flames. “How is he?”

 

“He says he’s fine.” Dean limped over to Cas, settling down next to him painfully, his leg aching like a rotten tooth.

 

Cas’ smile was brief and knowing. “Of course he does. Bobby always says that he’s fine.”

 

Dean snorted and settled down on his blankets. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean he is.”

 

Castiel put the poker back in its holder and huddled next to Dean, pulling the blankets over both of them. Sometimes, Dean told himself that he was sleeping with Castiel only because they both needed the body heat; sometimes, he was honest enough to admit that he enjoyed having Castiel so close to him, feeling Cas’ warmth, keeping him close.

 

“Not unlike you,” Castiel replied, his mouth so close to Dean’s ear that Dean could feel the moist warmth of Cas’ breath.

 

Dean wanted to roll over, to bury his face in Cas’ shoulder, to confess that he wanted Castiel in a way that would probably send him back to hell when he died a second time. One of these days, he wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation, and he’d damn both of them.

 

Instead, Dean scooted backwards until his back was snug to Cas’ front. “Did you check on Ben?”

 

“He’s sleeping, Dean.” Cas’ arms tightened around him. “Don’t worry.”

 

“I think we passed the ‘don’t worry’ point a while ago.” Dean smiled into the darkness.

 

He could hear the answering smile in Cas’ voice. “You’re a father now. I think your job is to worry.”

 

“Ben is family. I worry about my family. Always have.” It was, oddly enough, easy to be honest with Cas in the dim light of the fire, watching the flickering flames dance and flare around half-charred logs. The sight was hypnotizing.

 

And Dean didn’t mind being honest with Cas, not when he knew Cas would have his back. Times like these, worrying over Ben and Bobby, with Cas a steady presence by his side, Dean couldn’t help but think of Sam, his absence looming large. As far as Dean could tell, Sam hadn’t even tried to meet up with them, and that hurt like a mother fucker.

 

Which was why Dean tried not to think about it.

 

Castiel’s hand skimmed down his arm, as though he’d read Dean’s mind. “Please, Dean. Don’t worry about Sam. I’m sure he’s fine.”

 

“He hasn’t shown. I know you couldn’t find him in Norman, but I thought…” Dean had believed that no matter what happened, Sam would find him. Eventually, Sam would arrive at Bobby’s, because he would know that if something happened to prevent Dean from making their meeting, Bobby’s was the place to be.

 

Castiel’s thumb made soothing circles on Dean’s forearm. “Maybe he doesn’t know you’re here.”

 

“Do you know that for sure?”

 

“I don’t know many things for sure.” Castiel’s nose was warm against Dean’s neck, Cas’ breath hot. “But I know that you saved the world from Lucifer, that you were hurt, that Ben is your son, and that we will do everything we can to protect both Ben and Bobby.”

 

Dean let out a breath that might have been a laugh if he didn’t know better. “You didn’t say anything about the fact that that I’m a cripple.”

 

“You’re not a cripple.”

 

“Close enough”

 

“Dean—”

 

“You and I both know that my bum leg makes me a liability.”

 

Castiel snorted. “You’re Ben’s father, Bobby’s surrogate son, and my friend. There’s no room in there for you to be a liability.”

 

Dean smiled in spite of the ache in his heart, and in his leg. “Yeah, I get it.”

 

“Sleep, Dean.”

 

Dean wished he could. Instead, he stared at the fire as Cas’ breathing evened out behind him, worst-case scenarios filling his thoughts, his anxiety keeping him company until the dawn.

 

~~~~~

 

Dean pressed a hand to Ben’s forehead to check for a fever and smiled when he felt cool skin. “How’re you feeling, buddy?” he asked, sitting down next to Ben on the couch in the study.

 

“I miss Mom.”

 

“Yeah, I know. Me, too.” Dean wanted nothing more than to gather his son up into his arms and hold him close, but he had no idea how Ben would respond to that sort of gesture yet. “Cas and I have to go into town. You think you can take care of Uncle Bobby while we’re gone?”

 

Ben nodded. “Sure.”

 

Dean smiled, unable to resist the urge to smooth Ben’s hair. “Good man.”

 

“Dad?”

 

“Yeah, kiddo?” Dean still found him flushing with pleasure at the title, even though Ben had been using it for months.

 

Ben bit his lip, uncertainty obvious in the way he fidgeted with the seam on one of the cushions, and the way he wouldn’t meet Dean’s eyes. “Do you think we could maybe go sledding? Sometime?”

 

Dean glanced towards the door, hearing the howling of the wind. “I’ll see what we can do, but it’s pretty cold outside right now.”

 

Ben’s disappointment was clear in the way he nodded, manfully attempting to keep all expression off of his face. “Yeah, okay.”

 

“Let’s see what happens in a couple of days, okay?” Dean suggested. “If the cough hasn’t come back, we’ll talk about it then.”

 

Ben nodded. “Yeah, okay. It’s not like we have money for sleds anyway, right?”

 

“You don’t need a sled,” Dean replied, suddenly determined to demonstrate that to his son. Necessity was the mother of invention, and he’d skidded down snowy hills on all manner of things. “I’ll show you in a few days.”

 

Ben’s grin was reward enough, and Dean ruffled Ben’s hair again. “I’ll see you later, son.”

 

Dean stood up as quickly as he was able and headed out of the study. Cas met him in the hallway, and they both paused just inside the front door to pull on coats, hats, and gloves.

 

By the time they reached the truck they’d been using to get back and forth between Bobby’s and Sioux Falls, Cas’ cheeks were red, and Dean was chilled to the bone.

 

“Do you want to drive, or should I?” Cas asked.

 

“I’ll drive on the way out,” Dean replied. “I’ll probably have to take the jump seat on the way back, stretch out my leg.”

 

“Good to know that you’re finally willing to take care of yourself,” Cas muttered, although Dean heard him clearly.

 

“Yes, Mother.”

 

“For some strange reason, I care about you.” Cas shot him a grin that went straight to Dean’s groin.

 

Dean covered his discomfiture with his best smirk. “I’m irresistible.”

 

Castiel snorted. “Of course, Dean.”

 

The road was covered with snow, and Dean focused on negotiating the ruts cut into the deep snow. Dean wasn’t about to risk totaling his baby if there was another option, and the four-wheel drive handled better in the snow anyway.

 

The grocery store closest to Bobby’s place had a lot of empty spaces on the shelves, but it had the basics, and the owner knew them by name. Fresh produce was nearly impossible to come by; Dean bypassed that section altogether.

 

Meat was easier; the area was rife with farmers and ranchers who were all too willing to capitalize on the gasoline shortages that currently made trucking nearly impossible. Prices were high, though, and credit cards were worthless. Dean only had so much cash, basically what Bobby had kept in his mattress, and there just wasn’t enough of it.

 

“Flour and sugar has gone up,” Dean said in an undertone. “It’s going to be tight.”

 

Cas frowned at the price tags. “We have enough. I can make it last.”

 

“Not if it means you’re not eating,” Dean shot Cas a look that said he knew exactly what Cas had been doing. “You’re the next thing to human now. You can’t afford not to eat.”

 

“I am fine, Dean.” Castiel used the “angel of the Lord” voice that Dean knew so well. “I can take care of myself.”

 

Dean didn’t respond, grabbing the flour and sugar they needed and depositing it in the cart. “Let’s get out of here.”

 

The owner, Orrin Visnick, smiled as they approached the register. “Good to see you again, Dean. How’s Bobby?”

 

“Good.” Dean forced a smile, trying not to worry about the prices as they added up. “At least, that’s what he says.”

 

Orrin chuckled. “Sounds like Bobby. He’s a stubborn son of a bitch.”

 

Dean grinned. “Yeah, that’s Bobby.”

 

The total showed on the register, and Dean glanced at the amount. Castiel pulled out the roll of bills Bobby had left in their care.

 

Orrin shook his head. “I’ll put it on Bobby’s tab.”

 

“We have the cash,” Dean said, flushing, hating the idea of taking charity.

 

Orrin shook his head. “These are hard times, Dean. Neighbors look out for each other, and Bobby’s done me a favor or two.” He smiled wryly. “Now, you come to get groceries when I’m not working the register, that’s a different story.”

 

Dean nodded shortly, his chest tight. “Thanks.”

 

Orrin waved off his gratitude. “How’s that boy of yours?”

 

The thought of Ben always pulled a smile out of Dean. “Good. Feeling enough better to want to go sledding.”

 

Orrin nodded. “My son is planning on taking his kids soon, with the four-wheeler if we’ve got the gas. If I can, I’ll let you know when. Ben would be welcome.”

 

“That’s kind of you.”

 

Orrin just laughed. “The more the merrier.”

 

Dean pretended not to see the candy bars that Orrin threw in the bag without comment as they left to load up the truck. The first snowflakes were starting to fall as they closed the gate and climbed in.

 

“You okay?” Castiel’s question broke the silence in the cab.

 

Dean shook his head, wedging himself into the back and stretching his bad leg out. “I’m just not used to it.”

 

“This is what we both fought for, Dean.” Castiel turned, his eyes knowing. “People who are kind, and who do the right thing.”

 

“I know.” Dean leaned his head against the side window.

 

Cas turned his eyes back to the dashboard, pulling out of their parking space carefully. “Then what’s the problem?”

 

Dean wasn’t sure how to respond, how to tell Castiel that the stark difference between a near stranger’s kindness, and his brother’s apparent disregard for family, pissed him off. Even if Sam didn’t know that Dean was still alive, Bobby was the closest thing to family they both had, and Sam would have known that Dean would contact Bobby if possible. Hell, Sam had known that Dean planned on leaving Ben with Bobby.

 

And Dean _had_ to believe that Sam was just being a jerk; the only other option—death—was unthinkable.

 

“I’d know if he was dead, don’t you think?&amp;rd Dean asked, not responding directly to Cas’ question.

 

“If you didn’t, I would,” Castiel responded. “I’ve been praying for a sign, and I have seen none.”

 

Dean coughed to hide his snort of disbelief. “Cas—”

 

“I still believe, Dean, and I have every reason to.”

 

Dean had heard the story; he’d been dying, the infection in his leg spreading, and he had survived, his leg had been saved. Castiel insisted that it was only because God had answered his prayer. Most of the time, Dean wasn’t inclined to argue.

 

“I know, Cas. I haven’t seen any sign of God’s presence, though. I’m sorry.”

 

Cas shot Dean a look over his shoulder. “If we live through this winter, that should be sign enough.”

 

“Is it that bad?” Dean asked.

 

By necessity, Castiel had been the one to do a lot of the cooking, and had taken over what Bobby had termed the “quartermaster’s” job of keeping track of supplies. Now, Cas kept his eyes on the road, which told Dean everything he needed to know.

 

“We’ve got enough to make it through the winter.”

 

“How close is it going to be, Cas?”

 

“Close.” The snow was falling heavily now, and Castiel flicked on the headlights. “What happened today helped.”

 

“And how many times is that going to have to happen for us to eat?” Dean snapped.

 

“I’ll make it work, Dean.”

 

Dean leaned forward, angry but not wanting to distract Cas from the road. “No. We’re in this together, okay? You tell me what we’re looking at. I’m healed up, so you don’t have to protect me.”

 

“We won’t starve,” Castiel finally said, “but we’re not going to be eating well. If you and I are careful, we’ll be fine.”

 

“You’re telling me that Bobby and Ben will eat regularly, and we won’t.”

 

“Yes.” Castiel glanced over at Dean. “Bobby and I have talked about ways to supplement our food supply. If we can set up a deer stand, we can hunt.”

 

Dean nodded slowly. “Not much is going to be out in this weather.”

 

Castiel’s grim expression indicated that he was well aware of that fact. “Bobby and I talked about that, too.”

 

“You talked to _Bobby_?” Dean demanded.

 

Castiel sighed. “You were feverish and high on pain medication at the time, Dean. Who else was I supposed to talk to?”

 

“And you couldn’t have filled me in?”

 

“You’re hurting. You aren’t sleeping well, and you’re worried about Ben and Bobby. I didn’t want you to worry more.”

 

“Yeah, well, now I’m worried.” Dean slumped back against the side of the car. “If Sam was here, we’d actually have a shot, you know.”

 

“If Sam was here, we would need twice as much food.”

 

Dean grunted, his anger reduced to a slow simmer. “Yeah, I guess.”

 

“He may yet arrive, Dean.”

 

“You don’t believe that.”

 

“Travel is difficult,” Castiel said carefully. “It’s still possible.”

 

Dean punched the back of the passenger seat, unable to fully contain his bitterness. He _wanted_ his brother; Dean knew that it would be easier with Sam around, even if it meant one more mouth to feed. Sam’s presence would mean one more able body, and one more chance to earn or hustle money. It meant another person who knew the basics of being a human, another person Dean didn’t have to explain things to, because Sam already knew.

 

Dean might be able to rely on Cas, but they didn’t yet have the sort of unspoken communication he’d developed over years with his brother.

 

“Yeah.” Dean frowned as Castiel slowed, catching sight of the car parked by the side of the road. “Cas?”

 

“I see it.” Castiel parked right behind the white, late model SUV in the ditch. It was half-covered in snow and impossible to see from the other side of the road, which explained why they hadn’t noticed it earlier.

 

Dean exited the truck with difficulty, his bad leg stiff and aching. Dean brushed the snow from the driver’s window and tried the door cautiously. It opened after a rough tug, and Dean saw the man behind the wheel, skin pale and blue-tinged.

 

Castiel slid into the ditch over to the passenger side door, although Dean already knew what he was going to find. “What have you got?”

 

“Dead,” Castiel responded, pressing his fingers to the side of her throat. He looked across the bodies to Dean. “I hate to say it, but we need to siphon the gas and collect anything else that might prove useful.”

 

Dean winced at the idea of stealing from the dead; it was moments like this when Cas reminded him that he wasn’t entirely human. Cas cared about Dean and Bobby and Ben, but he didn’t feel the deaths of random strangers the way that Dean did. Cas had a deep pragmatic streak that sprang up any time Dean’s best interests were involved.

 

“Let’s get it done.” Dean opened the back door on the driver’s side and began rifling through the clothing and blankets piled in the backseat while Cas checked the gas tank. When his hand found something that was unmistakably human flesh, Dean let out a startled cry. “Cas!”

 

Castiel was by his side in a flash, lifting out the still, pale figure of a child. She was still half-wrapped in a couple of blankets, and Cas tucked her in close to his chest while Dean fumbled for a pulse. “She’s still alive,” Dean murmured with a sigh of relief. “The parents must have piled the clothing on her when they realized they were stuck.”

 

“The tank was dry.” Castiel headed for their truck. “Can you drive?”

 

“I’ll manage.” Dean slid behind the wheel, gritting his teeth against the pain. Castiel settled the girl in his lap, stripping off his jacket carefully, trying not to jostle her too much as he did so. Pulling her against his chest, Cas wrapped the coat around her and the rest of the layers, clearly trying to trap as much of his body heat as possible.

 

Dean flipped the heater controls to full blast and carefully pulled back out on the road. Glancing over at Cas, Dean could see the end of a blond braid peeking out from under a red and white ski cap.

 

If he had to guess, from the brief glimpse he’d gotten of her face and her size, Dean would say she was about Ben’s age, maybe a little younger. He wondered how long the car had been in the ditch, how long her parents had been dead. The iciness of their skin indicated it had been quite a while, and he suppressed a shudder at the thought that she had been trapped in a car with her dead parents.

 

“What are we going to do with her?” Dean asked in an undertone, focusing on the road. The snow was now falling so thickly that he could barely tell where the road ended and the shoulder began.

 

“Do we have a choice?” Castiel asked. “We could take her back into town with us, but that won’t be until we can manage the roads again.”

 

Cas didn’t need to point out that this was the first time in a month they’d been able to make it into town, or that with a storm this size, they were likely to be stuck at Bobby’s again for a while.

 

Neither of them mentioned the fact that another kid, another mouth to feed, another person to take care of, was just going to make it that much harder to make it through the winter.

 

Dean gripped the wheel harder, feeling the pressure even through his thick winter gloves, and he nodded. “We’ll make it work.”

 

Castiel laid a hand on top of the girl’s head, as though in benediction. “Without some sort of miracle, she may not survive.”

 

And Dean couldn’t quite help thinking that it might be better


	3. Rural South Dakota, Mid-Summer 2016

**Chapter 3: Rural South Dakota, Mid-Summer 2016**

 

Sam had tried in vain to find any sign of the Dean he’d known in the house, but other than the rusted out Willys, none seemed to exist.

 

Blowing on a spoonful of soup to cool it, Sam kept his head down and concentrated on some of the best food he’d had in ages. He wanted to savor every bite, knowing full well that one bowl was all he’d get.

 

Grabbing the piece of bread he’d snagged earlier, Sam dipped it into the soup, soaking up the rich broth before taking a bite. Across from him, Ben did the same, clearly enjoying the meal as much as Sam.

 

Sam kept going over the names of the kids in his head, trying to memorize identifying characteristics, getting a feel for Dean’s life now. Next to Ben, across the table from Sam, sat Henry, a small, thin boy of about twelve. Between Henry and Castiel was a blonde girl of about fifteen. Dean had introduced her as Mary, and said she didn’t speak.

 

The two children between Sam and Castiel, Ryan and Cora, sat on their knees, shoveling food into their mouths as quickly as possible.

 

Dean sat on Sam’s left, which meant that it was impossible for Sam to watch him without being obvious about it. Sam felt almost as though there was a stranger sitting at his left hand; the gap between them was wider than it had ever been, even after almost four years at Stanford.

 

“We’ll need to go into town tomorrow,” Castiel said, breaking the silence.

 

Dean grunted. “Yeah. I’ll go, and I’ll take Sam with me.” Henry made a sound of protest, and Sam heard Dean chuckle. “And we’ll take Henry. Ben?”

 

“I’ll hunt tomorrow, see what I can find. I might have to go farther out.”

 

“Take one of the bikes,” Castiel advised. “We’ve got enough gas.”

 

Ben nodded. “Sure.”

 

Sam wanted to ask again what Dean and Castiel did, how they lived. Clearly, food was scarce out here; Ben’s supplemental hunting was proof enough of that. Sam wondered how long he would be able to stay; he had to carry his own weight.

 

“Sam, we’ll put you up on the porch tonight. It’s more comfortable than it sounds.”

 

At Dean’s words, Sam looked over at his brother. “Wherever. I don’t want to put you out.”

 

“You’re my brother. You’re not going to put me out.” Dean smiled, his eyes warm. “Besides, as anyone could tell you, we’re in the business of taking in strays.”

 

Sam caught Ben’s grin. “That’s what they pay you for, Dad.”

 

Dean snorted. “Yeah, sure. Because parenting is a quick way to get rich.” He winked as he said it, and given the way Castiel smiled and the other kids started laughing, the joke was an old one.

 

Sam felt more than a little left out, but he kept his mouth shut. He wouldn’t be in this position if he hadn’t insisted on leaving all those years ago, or if he’d just looked a little harder. Once again, the guilt fell on Sam’s head, and he had to make it right.

 

Too bad he had no idea how to even begin.

 

“Sam, you’ve got first shower if you want it,” Dean said.

 

“What’s the water situation like?” Sam asked, knowing that water—especially hot water—could be scarce.

 

“There’s enough for a good, long shower if you want it,” Dean replied, speaking through a mouthful of bread and soup.

 

“I don’t want to put anyone out,” Sam repeated.

 

“You’re not putting us out,” Castiel said firmly from his end of the table. “I suspect that Ryan and Cora will be happy to skip bath time tonight.”

 

Sam didn’t miss the way Ryan’s face lit up, or the way that Cora wriggled a little in her chair. “Does that mean we’ll have time for an extra chapter tonight?” Ryan asked.

 

“I think that could be arranged.” Castiel smiled at them fondly.

 

Mary rose from the table silently, taking her bowl with her. “If you want more, there’s enough,” Dean said quietly.

 

She offered a vague smile, then began to rinse her bowl at the sink.

 

Sam saw the look that Castiel and Dean exchanged across the length of the table, concern clearly being communicated between the two of them. Henry cleared his throat. “Papa Cas? Can I have more?”

 

“I’ll get it.” Dean began to rise, but Mary drifted over to Henry and picked up his bowl, making a brief motion with her hand that had Dean sitting back in his seat. “You’ve been listening to Cas too much, Mary.”

 

A dimple flashed in her right cheek, and she tossed her blond braid behind her shoulder; for a moment, she was as animated as any other girl of fifteen might be.

 

Henry dug into his bowl as soon as Mary had set it in front of him again, and Sam jerked a little in surprise when Mary appeared at his right shoulder. She reached for his bowl, but Sam put his hand up, stopping her. “No, that’s okay. I’ve had enough.”

 

“It’s okay, Sammy,” Dean advised him quietly. “We’ve got plenty.”

 

Sam hated feeling like a supplicant; he hated coming to Dean with his hat in his hand, essentially asking Dean to take care of him all over again.

 

“With the supplies you brought, we’re in good shape,” Castiel added. “And the coffee is most appreciated.” A nostalgic smile flickered across Castiel’s face. “Do you know how long it’s been since we’ve had real coffee?”

 

Sam’s tension eased a bit, and Dean grinned. “Oh, God, yes. And the beef jerky.”

 

“And the chocolate,” Castiel added.

 

Mary’s hands began flying in a complicated pattern as she stood next to Sam. Everyone fell silent, watching her, and Dean grinned and shook his head when she’d finished. “Ask Cas, Mary. He’ll know.”

 

She turned to Castiel impatiently, and Castiel shrugged. “We’ll check after dinner.”

 

Sam glanced at Dean, who interpreted in a low voice, “Mary has a thing for chocolate cake, but it’s been awhile since we’ve been able to get our hands on any. She wanted to know if there were enough baking supplies to make one.”

 

“We’ve got pie tonight,” Castiel announced, the corners of his mouth turning up in amusement.

 

Dean’s smug smile indicated that he’d already discovered the pies, and Sam was relieved to find at least one thing hadn’t changed.

 

~~~~~

 

“You think he’s okay?” Dean asked, shucking out of his jeans.

 

Cas sat cross-legged on the edge of their bed, already stripped down to his boxers. The smile that tilted the corners of his mouth was fond, with just a touch of superiority. “The back porch is probably the most comfortable room in the house, Dean.”

 

“Yeah.” Dean pulled his green t-shirt over his head and tossed it into the corner. “But that’s not exactly what I meant.”

 

“His eye appears to have healed without any sign of infection.” Cas’ even tone suggested that he had no interest either way, but Dean knew better. He knew well enough that Cas had asked Andrew to find Sam and let him know Dean was alive.

 

Dean snorted. “You’re getting a lot better at lying, you know. Should I be worried?”

 

“The cost of parenting,” Castiel said cheerfully. “You have to become an accomplished liar.”

 

He couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped, and Dean lay back on the bed, his hands behind his head. “You ever look around and wonder how we got here, Cas?”

 

“All the time.” Cas stretched out next to him, head propped up on his elbow. Once pale skin had been tanned by the sun, by hours spent outdoors in the garden, or hanging clothing up to dry on clotheslines. He looked completely human and supremely content—not to mention entirely too smug.

 

Dean remained silent, thinking about how Sam had looked at him, as though Dean was a stranger, someone he’d never known. He wondered sometimes if they ever _had_ known each other; Sam certainly hadn’t been aware that Dean’s greatest desire was for a family, although Cas had.

 

And yet, Dean would have said that Sam knew him better than anyone at one point, but that had been years ago. A lot had happened since then.

 

The breeze through the open window carried the scent of rain, and Dean found himself hoping for a good thunderstorm, even if it did make getting into town more difficult. They needed the break in the humidity.

 

“What are you thinking?”

 

“That it would be nice to have some rain tomorrow,” Dean replied.

 

“It would, although I had planned on doing laundry tomorrow. You might want to let Sam know that I can do his clothes at the same time.”

 

Dean rolled to face Cas, scratching at his beard. “What is it with you and my brother?”

 

Cas didn’t pretend not to understand. “You need him.”

 

“You didn’t seem to think so eight years go,” Dean muttered.

 

Cas sighed, his free hand tracing the outlines of Dean’s pectoral muscles and biceps. “I didn’t know you wouldn’t see him for so long. Otherwise, I would have attempted to stop him from leaving.”

 

Dean huffed out a mirthless laugh. “You can’t stop Sam when he’s got his mind set on something, Cas, and it’s only a matter of time before he runs again.”

 

“You’ve never forgiven him for leaving,” Cas murmured, running his thumb over Dean’s jaw line and the edge of his beard.

 

Dean remained silent, then admitted, “I’ve never forgiven myself for letting him leave.”

 

“I still believe that all things work out as they are meant to do.” Cas’ lips caressed his pulse point, his free hand drifted lower, ghosting over the front of Dean’s boxers. “I believe that you were meant to find Ben, just as Sam needed to go his own way.”

 

“Even though it meant that he lost an eye?” Dean demanded in a low voice. “You _saw_ him, Cas! He’s nothing but skin and bones. He doesn’t even look…” Dean trailed off, unable to say that Sam didn’t look like his brother anymore, even though it was true.

 

Cas’ mouth found his, and Dean heard him whisper against his lips, “How many children have we put back together, Dean? We will offer your brother shelter, but he has to accept our help. You must do that much for him. He is a grown man.”

 

“I know.”

 

And those were the last coherent words Dean spoke before he gave himself over to Cas’ hands and mouth and clever tongue.

 

~~~~~

 

Sam awoke the next morning to the quiet plop of raindrops against the roof of the covered porch. The rain had cooled the air considerably, and Sam had pulled his sleeping bag over him during the course of the night without waking.

 

Dean had several spare army cots, and Sam had dragged one of the thin mattresses to the porch, then supplemented it with his own bedroll and pillow. Dean had apologized for the rough conditions, but Sam had told him honestly that the bed was likely to be the most comfortable he’d had for months, if not years.

 

He’d slept better than he had in a long time, too.

 

Sam could hear the sounds of dishes rattling in the kitchen, just over his shoulder, and he rose slowly, reaching for his eye patch. He couldn’t sleep with the thing on, but he hated to let anyone see the heavy scar tissue overlaying the empty socket.

 

Dean was standing next to the stove when Sam slipped through the backdoor. He had another moment of déjà vu, remembering the rare mornings that Dad had made breakfast for them. Dean looked so much like their dad at that moment, it was like a physical blow.

 

“Eggs okay?” Dean asked, glancing over his shoulder with a carefully neutral expression.

 

Sam nodded. “Yeah. Do you need some help?”

 

“Nah, I got it.” Dean stirred the eggs in the pan with the casual, practiced movements of someone who had done this a hundred times before. “Coffee’s ready if you want some.”

 

“I’ll pass.” Sam stood awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen; he had no idea where to stand, or where to sit, or what to say. For a brief moment, he thought about running, getting as far away from this place as he could.

 

Sam had believed that coming here, that seeing Dean again, would feel like coming home; instead, he felt more alone than ever before.

 

“Have a seat, Sam.” Dean set the wooden spoon down, turning to face him. “We haven’t had a chance to talk yet.”

 

Sam swallowed and perched on the edge of one of the benches. “Yeah. You’ve had stuff going on.”

 

“Life doesn’t stop for anyone or anything,” Dean acknowledged, turning back to the stove and beginning to dish up the eggs on two plates. He added a thick slice of bread to each plate, and handed one to Sam. “It’s good to see you again.”

 

Something in Sam’s chest loosened at that. “Yeah, same here. When I found out…”

 

“Cas said Kevin was the one who told you I was dead.” Dean’s voice gave no hint of emotion while he sat down on Sam’s good side and began shoveling food into his mouth.

 

Sam followed his example and began to eat, grateful that Dean had placed himself where Sam could see him without having to crane his neck. “Yeah. Ran into him when I went to meet up with you.”

 

Dean’s mouth tightened, and a line appeared between his brows. “I’m sorry.”

 

“You were injured.” It was a statement, not a question, and Sam scooped up egg onto his piece of bread, focusing on his breakfast. Sam didn’t want to remember the heavy grief that had caused him to go just a little crazy when Kevin told him what had happened.

 

Dean nodded. “My leg was crushed by a bunch of falling rocks. Kevin didn’t stay to find out who was alive or dead when the Gulch caved in. Good thing for me, Cas stuck around.”

 

“You and him…” Sam paused, trying to find the right words. “How long have you been together?”

 

“Since just after the leg.” Dean shrugged, as though it didn’t matter, but a hint of his old, goofy grin pulled the corners of his mouth up. “Crazy, huh?”

 

Sam thought about it. “Not as crazy as I thought it would be. He’s good for you.” Sam was proud of the fact that he managed to get the words out without choking on them.

 

Dean’s reply was cut off by Henry’s noisy entrance, his boots clattering on the wooden floor. “Go ahead and make some toast,” Dean encouraged. “We’ll get lunch in town today.”

 

Henry responded with a quick grin and a slightly wary look at Sam, then stepped on the box tucked into a corner. Sam watched as Henry expertly cut two thin slices of bread and popped them in the toaster.

 

“Did Ben already leave?” Henry asked, sitting down next to Dean.

 

“Best time for hunting is early in the morning.” Dean elbowed Henry gently in the ribs. “Best time for fishing, too.”

 

“Can we go? Tomorrow?”

 

“Sure,” Dean replied easily. “If the weather’s good, and nothing else comes up.”

 

“Are we taking the Jeep today?” Henry asked. “Can I drive?”

 

Dean shook his head. “You know the rules, Henry. When your feet can reach the pedals, you can drive into town. Otherwise, it’s just out here.”

 

Henry sighed, but acquiesced readily enough. Sam remained silent while Henry retrieved his bread from the toaster and smeared it with what looked like raspberry preserves from the fridge.

 

“Are you really Papa Dean’s brother?”

 

Sam started, a little surprised that Henry had addressed him. “Yeah. All my life.”

 

Henry grinned at that. “So, does that mean we can call you Uncle Sam?”

 

“Uh, sure, if you want.”

 

“Okay, cool.” Henry pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose and continued eating his toast, apparently content.

 

Dean gave Henry an amused look but said nothing, and Sam covered his confusion by taking his plate to the sink. Sam wondered if it really was that simple, if he could really make a place for himself in Dean’s life.

 

Or maybe if coming here had been a mistake, and leaving would do even more harm.


	4. Los Angeles, California, Early 2016

Sam disassembled the pistol quickly and efficiently, then put it back together, letting the familiar action soothe his nerves. He ignored the discomfort of the hard plastic chair under him, as well as the echoing voices through the school gym, now converted into a makeshift barracks. Over the years, he’d discovered that he could just turn his mind off when he cleaned his guns or sharpened his knives. For a few minutes, anyway, he could forget, could get out from under the oppressive weight of memory and regret.

 

“Hey, Winchester.” Luis Perez slid into the seat across from him, leaning across the gray laminate table. “I hear we may be getting a call soon.”

 

“Riots again?” Sam grunted. He’d taken this job because the private contractors needed warm bodies, and he needed the money to get out of the hellhole that was L.A. The job might be a lot of waiting and a little bit of action, but the money was better than he could make doing anything else.

 

Luis shrugged. “When isn’t it riots? Not enough food to go around, man.”

 

Sam loaded his weapon and checked to make sure the safety was on before holstering the gun. “Not enough anything to go around.”

 

Luis sprawled in his chair, appearing relaxed, but Sam could see Luis’ fingers beating out a nervous tattoo on his leg. “You going to renew your contract? You’re out in what? Two weeks?” Luis’s voice cracked a bit, his young, unlined face almost painfully eager.

 

Sam could remember being that young, but only dimly. Most days, he felt ancient as stone. “Yeah, I’m out in two weeks, and I’m getting the fuck out of here.”

 

The ensuing silence stretched out between them, and Sam waited for Luis to take the hint and get lost. He had no idea why Luis followed him around like a lost puppy, but no matter how hard Sam tried to ignore him, Luis stuck to him like glue. This occasion was no exception; Luis remained seated, watching him with wide, dark eyes, and Sam resigned himself to having a conversation.

 

“What about you?” Sam asked. “You getting out?”

 

Luis shrugged. “Don’t know. Where else am I going to find a job that pays like this?”

 

Sam didn’t reply, knowing that there weren’t any other jobs that paid the going rate for a private security contractor. Even if he did have to work six months before he got his cash, the company paid for room and board.  The “room” might consist of a bare cot in an ancient school gym with peeling paint and warped floors; meals were usually MREs eaten on the fly, or protein bars that tasted like chalk. But it was a roof and food, which was more than a lot of people had.

 

There were some guys who couldn’t hack it, of course, who slipped away in the middle of the night without their money, unable to stomach the killing. Sam wasn’t one of them; he’d done worse.

 

Sam was almost relieved when the alarm sounded, because it meant that the waiting was over, as well as the pressure to make conversation, to be friendly. Sam had lost too many people to bring himself to care for someone else.

 

Sometimes, Sam thought, this post-apocalyptic world reflected the darkness of his own soul, that if Dean had survived, the world would be a better place, not worse. Sometimes, Sam thought that the only thing keeping him alive was the knowledge of what was waiting for him on the other side of death, that he would become a worse monster than he was now.

 

And Sam now knew that Dean was the better man; Dean was the one who should have survived.

 

Sam joined the milling crowd, trying to ignore the way Luis remained glued to his side. Black-clad figures jostled both of them, forcing Luis closer to Sam.

 

Wade—their captain, for lack of a better title—called them to order, and the echoing voices slowly stilled. “We’ve got another riot on our hands, people. Two groups—group one has tear gas. Whoever doesn’t disperse after being gassed gets shot. Live rounds. Let’s go.”

 

Sam headed off to the left with group two, Luis by his side, forming a rough line in front of the tables that held the assault rifles and ammunition that would soon be passed out. Sam stayed at the back of the line, letting the other men press forward. Some—the new guys, most likely—were eager enough to want to be first. Others—veterans that Sam recognized, even if he didn’t know them—moved forward slowly as space in front of the long tables opened up.

 

Sam preferred using tear gas; very few people died after being gassed, unless they were trampled to death. Using live rounds was harder, and was what Sam hated most about this job. The people he injured and killed were just _people_—angry, scared people, no different than the ones he and Dean had tried to help all those years ago.

 

But Sam wasn’t in the business of helping folks anymore. He was just trying to survive, and right now, he was trying to get the fuck out of Los Angeles. If he had to climb over a few bodies to get out of this shithole, well, it wouldn’t be the worst thing he’d ever done.

 

Sam took the AK-47 he was offered as he went through the line, Luis half a step behind him. He might not care to make friends with anyone, but Sam didn’t mind having someone to watch his back in a fight.

 

Sam climbed into the troop transport that Blackpool provided, the canvas sides providing some cover as they moved deeper into the city, toward the cause of the disturbance. Sam wouldn’t allow himself to think about what they were heading towards, or about the blood already on his hands.

 

He might be aware that every life lost in these riots was his responsibility, but that didn’t mean he wanted to dwell on it.

 

The sound washed over the transport long before the truck stopped; voices reaching a fever pitch clashed with the crackle and whoosh of flames, the crash of breaking glass, and the pop of gunfire. Sam could smell smoke, mixed with the sweat of the men around him, and adrenalin heightened his senses. Next to Sam, Luis’ leg was jerking in a jittery rhythm that stopped, then restarted.

 

Sam adjusted his black t-shirt, then wiped the sweat from his forehead with the hem. He pulled his gas mask over his face, watching Luis do the same out of the corner of his eye. The other men were also adjusting their equipment, checking ammo and clicking off safeties.

 

He followed the others out of the transport when the truck pulled to a stop, feeling the cool metal of the AK-47 in his hands, noting where the others in his group were relative to his position.

 

They hurriedly formed a ragged line. Sam’s vision was obscured by the gas mask, but he could see the others spreading out, staying no more than an arms-length away from each other. Heat waves rose up from the pavement, and Sam could see burning and burnt out wrecks of cars lining the street.

 

This area of Los Angeles had apparently been badly hit; the buildings Sam could see had broken windows and empty doorways. He caught sight of a fire hydrant, bright red paint still visible through the graffiti and dirt. Someone had broken it open, and water sprayed onto the crowd.

 

Wade barked orders in a way that reminded Sam of his dad, but he quickly shoved that thought to the back of his mind, not wanting to think about his family. He was getting pretty good at forgetting.

 

Group one moved toward the mass of people first, leaving Sam’s group several paces back. Sam tightened the straps on his gas mask and flipped the safety off the AK-47. Wade had been smart enough to approach from the north, so that the wind at their backs would disperse the gas into the mob, rather than the other way around.

 

The flash-bang grenades flew next, and a good bit of the mob began to move south, away from the contractors. The next wave of men would usually send most stragglers off to the sounds of gunfire, since it was always even odds that they would use live rounds.

 

Those among the mob who remained behind were armed and dangerous. Most wielded low-tech weaponry—bats, broken bottles, chains—but there were a few with guns. Guns were easy to come by, but ammunition was a different story.

 

Wade called out to the remaining crowd over his bullhorn, and Sam raised his weapon, preparing to fire. “If you don’t disperse, we will begin shooting.”

 

A shot rang out, but not from the contractors. One of the men to the right of Sam went down, clutching his shoulder, and a wave of gunfire followed without orders from Wade.

 

Sam let his instincts take over, lining up a shot and firing without thought, watching a middle-aged man with an ancient rifle go down, then a big man with a pistol. It was just like being on a hunt, Sam told himself. Just like killing monsters.

 

It was every man for himself, and that included the contractors. If Sam didn’t do his job, he wouldn’t get paid, and the rioters had chosen to be there, and they had chosen to stay.

 

The gunfire caused more people to retreat, but even as the mob thinned, those with guns pressed forward. A flash of blue caught his eye, and Sam saw a young woman—a teenager—standing on the hood of a burned out car, pistol in hand. She pointed it in their direction, and although Sam knew that it was kill or be killed, he hesitated for a split second.

 

Time seemed to slow to a crawl the way it sometimes did in the middle of a fight, and Sam took in every detail—the girl’s bright blue shirt, her tattered jeans, the way her dark hair blew around her face. Oddly enough, she reminded Sam of Ruby, whom he hadn’t thought of in years.

 

Somehow, that didn’t make it any easier to pull the trigger, but he did. Blood flowed from the hole in her forehead, and she crumpled, fell sideways over the hood of the car, and time resumed its normal flow.

 

Sam turned his attention back to the task at hand. They were suddenly in the middle of the mob. He could feel their anger and despair as they pressed in on him and the rest of the contractors; he’d lived among them—been one of them—for long enough to know that these folks weren’t the kind to back down. They were out of options, and driven by anger without reason.

 

At close quarters, shooting wasn’t advisable, and Sam turned his gun around, using the butt as a club. In the confusion, someone—he couldn’t see who—knocked his gas mask loose. It obscured his vision enough so that Sam pulled it off his head, not having the time to try to adjust it.

 

For the moment, all he could feel was the press of bodies, all he could smell was sweat and smoke. All he could think about was his own survival.

 

It was all a blur of motion and color, of automatic movement and chaos, and Sam moved on instinct. The anger that had once kept him alive in situations like this had long ago burned out. Now, all that remained was a reluctance to die.

 

Sam didn’t see it coming; one minute he was clubbing a rioter, the next there was a hot pain slashing through his left eye, through his cheek, through his head. He almost didn’t recognize the cry that came out of his own mouth.

 

Luis was there a moment later, ducking under Sam’s left arm, taking some of his weight. “Got you,” he gasped, then muttered something in Spanish that Sam couldn’t understand.

 

They made a strategic retreat, Luis supporting him as Sam continued firing into the crowd, pain echoing through him in waves. He fired blindly, unable to see out of one eye entirely, sweat dripping into the other.

 

When they reached the transport, Luis gave him a boost inside. Sam collapsed immediately, closing his right eye, hearing the buzz of voices around him, Luis calling for a medic. “Stay with me, Sam,” Luis called, his voice holding an edge of panic.

 

Sam couldn’t hold on, though. The pain was too much for him, and he slipped silently into the darkness.

 

~~~~~

 

Sam moved in and out of consciousness, hearing snatches of conversation that made little sense. He came close to waking a few times, but the fog of painkillers allowed him to float away again blissfully.

 

When he woke fully for the first time, someone was gripping his hand, and the first word out of Sam’s mouth was, “Dean?”

 

“No, it’s me. Luis.” Sam would have recognized the voice even if he hadn’t been able to open his gummy right eye. The rim of a cup touched his bottom lip as a strong hand raised his head.  “Here.”

 

Sam sipped the tepid water, the metallic tang telling him that they were still in Los Angeles. He had grown to hate the water here, the taste of it, the smell of it. The smog and the smoke, as well—it all left a film in his mouth that couldn’t be washed away.

 

“Where am I?” Sam asked, although he already knew the answer.

 

“Hospital,” Luis replied briefly. “The medics brought you here when—”

 

“How bad?” The pain was mostly localized in the left side of his face now, and Sam raised his hand to poke tentatively at the bandages covering his eye and cheek.

 

Luis glanced away, eyes dark with guilt. “They couldn’t save your eye. You were lucky that the glass shard didn’t hit the optic nerve, or go into your brain, man.”

 

“Yeah.” Sam suspected that Luis wanted absolution; he wanted to be told that this wasn’t his fault, but Sam couldn’t dredge up the words.

 

“Look, Sam, Wade said he could pay you, minus your last two weeks and the hospital stay.” Luis’ mouth twisted unhappily. “I won’t be out for a while, but I kept this little flop. It’s not much, but if you need somewhere to stay—”

 

Luis stopped, and Sam suddenly _got_ it—Luis had a fucking _crush_ on him. His blurry vision still allowed Sam to see the flush in Luis’ cheeks, and he felt the sheet move as Luis twisted it nervously. He’d given Luis no encouragement, and the kid had followed him around for the last four months because he _liked_ Sam.

 

“Thanks,” Sam said hoarsely, suddenly shamed. He didn’t know what he would have done if he’d known, but he might have been kinder.

 

Or, at least, he wanted to have been kinder.

 

“It’s cool.” Luis sounded a little desperate, and he reached out to squeeze Sam’s shoulder. “Get some rest, okay?”

 

“Yeah, sure.” Luis left, and Sam collapsed back onto the bed. He woke later when one of the nurses stopped by to give him more pain medication and change his bandages, then swiftly fell asleep again. He was grateful for the reprieve from his thoughts, drifting in and out of consciousness without thinking.

 

Sam came around when Luis stopped by to drop off his money, and Sam thanked him sincerely and promptly went back to sleep. He had no idea how long he’d been drifting in a fog of painkillers when one of the doctors came by and stood next to his bed, waking Sam with a hand on his shoulder.

 

“Mr. Winchester?”

 

“Yeah.” Sam tried not to touch the gauze on his cheek, feeling self-conscious even though he figured the doctor was used to things like this. Used to injuries like his.

 

The doctor gave him a sympathetic smile; Sam didn’t remember his name, and he didn’t really care to know it. “We can only keep you here another day. The wound is healing nicely, there’s no sign of infection, and—”

 

“You need the bed.” It was the same story all over the place. He knew he wasn’t injured badly enough to stay long term, but once he left, the medication would stop, and he’d have to start thinking again.

 

Sam was tired of his own thoughts.

 

“We do, I’m afraid. We’ll discharge you tomorrow morning.” The doctor patted his shoulder again. “There’s also someone here to see you if you’re up for it.”

 

Thinking it was Luis, Sam gave the okay.

 

The man who approached his bed wasn’t someone Sam recognized. The stranger was a big bear of a man with a full beard, wearing the jeans and flannel Sam would have attributed to a lumberjack.

 

“Hey.” The man stopped by his bed, hands shoved in his pockets. “Sam, right?”

 

“Do I know you?” he asked, wondering if he’d met the man sometime in the last few days and just didn’t remember. Or maybe Sam knew the guy from Blackpool, or somewhere else.

 

The man shook his head. “Probably not. I’m a friend of Dean Winchester.”

 

“How did you find me?” Sam asked. It had been a long time since he’d met someone who knew or knew of the Winchesters.

 

The man gave the rickety chair next to Sam’s bed a dubious look before he gingerly settled his bulk onto it. “You’re not hard to find. Big guy with the name of Winchester working for a private contractor?” He tried for a smile, but it didn’t quite make it through the beard. “Your brother sent me.”

 

Sam blinked, trying to focus with his good eye, striving to understand the joke. “My brother is dead.”

 

The man frowned. “No, he’s not. He’s living in South Dakota. I thought you knew.”

 

“He’s _dead_.” Sam felt his heart began to race, and his mouth went dry.

 

The man cleared his throat. “Maybe I should start over. I’m Andrew Brokofsky.”

 

“Sam Winchester.” He paused. “But you already knew that. I’m sorry, I just—”

 

“No one is at their best in the hospital.” Andrew leaned in closer. “I’m sorry about your eye.”

 

Sam gave serious thought to sticking his hands under him to prevent himself from touching the bandages. “Thanks. You, uh, I don’t—”

 

“Your brother is alive and living in South Dakota.” Andrew’s dark eyes were serious, and Sam could see no sign that Andrew was joking. “I can give you directions.”

 

Sam shook his head. “No. I was told—”

 

“Whatever you were told was wrong.” Andrew leaned in closer. “Your brother is alive and living in South Dakota. He’d be happy to see you again.”

 

Sam couldn’t even begin to describe the emotions rushing through him—guilt, anger for being lied to, hurt, regret, guilt, more anger. The emotions passed through him in a vicious cycle, and Sam glanced away. “I can’t believe you.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Andrew said. “Look, I have a motel room in the area, and I’ll be here for a few days. I can help you get kitted out if you want to head that direction.”

 

For a moment, Sam thought about refusing. He could call the doctor to toss Andrew out, forget he’d ever heard Dean was alive. He could put all of this out of his mind and get out of town, forget all of this. He wouldn’t have to beg Dean for forgiveness.

 

And then Sam remembered that this was his brother, and that an hour ago, he would have given his good eye to have Dean back.

 

“Yeah, I want to head out as soon as I can,” Sam replied.

 

He’d deal with the consequences, whatever they might be.


	5. Rural South Dakota, Mid-Summer 2016

Dean pulled himself into the driver’s seat, wincing a bit. He knew there was a storm coming; his leg ached like a son of a bitch, and was more accurate than any weatherman.

 

He glanced over at Henry, who had scrambled in through the passenger door and was wriggling with ill-concealed excitement at the thought of going into town. “Can we stop by the drugstore, Papa Dean?”

 

“Yeah, sure, kiddo,” Dean replied with an easy smile, trying not to look at Sam, who slid into the Willys after Henry.

 

He didn’t know how to read Sam anymore, didn’t know what to do with his brother’s expression when he asked how long Dean had been together with Cas.

 

Dean had been honest with Ben the day before; nothing Sam could say would change how he felt about Cas, or what Cas had done for them. When he and Sam had gone separate ways years before, Cas had stuck around. That was all that mattered.

 

The ride into town took half an hour, even though their place was only a few miles out, mostly because the roads in their area sucked. There were a few in the area who tried to patch the worst of the potholes in the spring, but it was still rough—too rough to use the Impala on a regular basis.

 

Henry filled the cab with his chatter about what kind of candy he was planning to buy with his hard-earned money, and whether they would see Miss Maryanne, and the possibility of fishing the following day.

 

By far the most outgoing of his kids, Dean was relieved that Henry was the one accompanying them; it saved him from having to talk to Sam. Dean had no idea what to say to his brother, and he was happy to delay the inevitable.

 

Besides, knowing Sam, he’d be gone just about the same time Dean got used to having him around.

 

Dean pulled up in front of the grocery store, giving Henry a stern look. “No running off until we have our supplies, okay?”

 

“Yes, sir,” Henry replied cheerfully, his voice cracking a bit on the final syllable.

 

Dean glanced over at Sam, who looked to be fighting a grin, and their eyes met over Henry’s head. For a moment, they were in perfect harmony—both remembering the trials of puberty and changing voices. Dean had teased Sam unmercifully, just as Sam had teased him.

 

The moment passed, however, and Dean looked away. The memories of his round-cheeked baby brother couldn’t stand up to the reality of the scarred, gaunt man in the passenger seat beside him. His anger, long suppressed, rose up to choke him, and he climbed out of the Willys and slammed the door behind him, trying to keep a tight rein on his temper.

 

“Dean!”

 

Dean turned to greet the man waving at him from down the street. “Henry, head on in to the store with Sam.” He handed Henry the list. “I’ll be right there.”

 

Henry brightened, obviously pleased to be given the responsibility for getting supplies, especially for something so important as food. All of his kids knew how important grocery shopping was, and they knew it was a mark of trust.

 

Sam opened his mouth, probably to argue, but he closed it with a snap and followed Henry without another word.

 

Dean gave a sigh of relief and limped down the street towards Howard “Howl” Walters. “Hey, Howl.” Dean shook his hand. “How are you?”

 

“Just fine.” Howl’s grin was genuine and friendly. “I see you brought a friend to town.”

 

Dean winced, knowing that word of a stranger at his place would go around fast. “My brother, Sam.”

 

“Didn’t know you had a brother,” Howl observed.

 

Dean shrugged off the implied question. “We got split up. You know how it is.”

 

Howl nodded because he did; nearly everyone had lost family during the apocalypse, and missing was often the same as dead in this brave new world, communications being what they were. “Sure I do.” Howl’s sharp eyes didn’t miss anything, though, and he asked, “Black sheep?”

 

“I guess so,” Dean said smiling. “Or maybe we were a family of black sheep.”

 

Howl chuckled. “Funny how being a parent settles you.”

 

“Ain’t that the truth,” Dean agreed. “So, you ready for us to swing by on our way out of town, or do you need another week or two?”

 

“Nah, swing by with Henry when you’re done in town,” Howl replied. “The puppies are weaned, and I’ve started their training. I’ve got one set aside for you, and she should make for a fine hunting dog.”

 

Dean laughed. “If the kids don’t spoil her rotten. Knowing Cora, she’ll have that dog all dressed up if we give her half a chance.”

 

“She’s a sweet little girl.” Dean wasn’t sure if Howl was referring to Cora or the puppy, but given how much Howl loved his dogs, that didn’t mean much.

 

“I appreciate it, Howl,” Dean said, reaching out to shake on the deal. “The kids have been bugging us for a dog for a long time now.”

 

Howl shrugged. “I owed you for fixing the tractor. And send that brother of yours my way if he needs work to keep his hands busy. Think I could dig something up.”

 

Dean nodded, but didn’t give any other indication of agreeing. “See you in a bit.”

 

By the time Dean reached the grocery store, Henry had given Sam the full tour, and they had collected most of the items on Cas’ list. This far out in the boonies, processed foods were impossible to come by; TV dinners were a thing of the past. Mostly, they bought dried goods and other staples, and Henry knew that.

 

Dean paused at the end of one aisle and listened as Henry explained all of this to Sam, using some of Cas’ words verbatim.

 

As Sam used his height to his advantage to pull some cans off the top shelf, Henry asked, “How did you hurt your eye?”

 

Dean took a step forward, ready to intervene. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to interrupt Sam’s explanation because Sam might not be ready to answer, or because Dean didn’t want to know.

 

Sam beat him to the punch, though. “I was fighting, and someone caught me off guard.”

 

Henry seemed to accept that at face value, which wasn’t a huge surprise; Henry didn’t question much, and he probably had the easiest temperament of their kids. Cas had once joked that Henry was like Teflon—no bad experience seemed to stick with him, which was both a blessing and a curse.

 

“Does it hurt?” Henry asked after taking a moment to ponder.

 

Dean could see the faint smile on Sam’s face. “No, not really. Not anymore.”

 

“Can I see it?”

 

Dean stepped forward at that point. He doubted that Sam wanted to show off his empty socket in the middle of the tiny grocery store. From the expression on Henry’s face when he caught sight of Dean, the boy knew he’d crossed a line.

 

“Henry, feel free to go to the drugstore. We’ll join you shortly.”

 

Henry gulped. “Yessir.”

 

Sam let out a dry chuckle. “You reminded me of Dad just then.” He paused. “More than just then.”

 

“Yeah?” Dean rubbed his beard self-consciously. “It’s probably just the beard.”

 

Sam shook his head, but all he said was, “Yeah, maybe.”

 

Dean waved at the shelves. “Let’s get this done.” He hesitated before adding, “Sorry about Henry. His curiosity gets the better of him sometimes.”

 

“Better than just staring the way a lot of people do. He’s a good kid.”

 

Dean grinned, pleased. “Yeah, they all are.”

 

Dean wished he could keep hold of that moment, where he felt like Sam was his younger brother again, but having Sam to help just threw into relief all the times Dean had done without him. All the times when it would have been easier to have Sam’s strong back and capable hands.

 

It was just icing on the cake that Sam probably wouldn’t have lost his eye if he’d found Dean at Bobby’s, instead of going off on his own, doing who knew what.

 

And now that the initial pleasure at having Sam back had faded, as well as the concern over his apparently poor condition, the old anger and bitterness rose up. For the last few years, Dean had assumed that Sam was dead; he’d seen no evidence to indicate the contrary, and Sam being dead had become easier to believe than Sam not showing up.

 

And now Dean knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Sam had been alive, and he found that he didn’t want to know more. If he found out that Sam would have been able to join them at Bobby’s that first winter, Dean didn’t know if he could forgive his brother.

 

Dean shoved that thought to the back of his mind; anger wouldn’t do him much good now. He’d be better off just enjoying Sam’s company as much as he could and forgetting the rest.

 

He couldn’t completely hide his bad mood; Dean threw the last bag of groceries in the back of the Willys with more force than was strictly necessary and slammed the back gate.

 

Sam seemed to sense the tension, because he cleared his throat in that nervous way Dean remembered. “So, uh, what’s next?”

 

“We’ll join Henry at the drugstore and try to pry him out of there.” Dean forced some cheer into his voice. “Maryanne keeps an impressive supply of candy.”

 

Sam fell into step beside Dean, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “Seems like a nice town.”

 

“It is. Quiet, you know.”

 

They made quite the pair, Dean thought, with a burst of self-deprecating humor—him with his lame leg, Sam with his missing eye. He hadn’t thought they’d survive the apocalypse, but he hadn’t expected to lose so much, either.

 

The drugstore was only a block down from the grocery, and the short distance prevented the silence between them from becoming too awkward.

 

“Well, there you are, Dean!” Maryanne Olsen came out from behind the counter to give Dean a warm embrace. “Henry was just telling me that his uncle had come to visit.” The look she gave Sam was both kind and assessing, and she held out a hand in a friendly manner. “Any family of Dean’s is welcome here.”

 

Sam stared at her hand, as though not quite knowing what to do with it. “Thank you,” Sam managed hoarsely after a second, shaking her hand.

 

“Thanks for the pies,” Dean said. “They were as delicious as always.”

 

“It was my pleasure. You know how much I enjoy baking. And you might tell Cas that we need him in town,” Maryanne said, looking at Dean. “Mrs. Kavinsky’s arthritis is bothering her again.”

 

Dean nodded. “I’ll send him in. I imagine if the weather holds, he can walk in tomorrow.”

 

Maryanne patted him on the arm. “Don’t be silly. You know we’ll give you whatever gas you need to get back and forth, and I know for a fact that Roger has a side of beef for you.”

 

“That would be helpful,” Dean admitted, putting an arm around Henry as he joined them.

 

“As if you haven’t earned it.” Maryanne pulled Dean down to buss his cheek the way he imagined his mother might have in some other life. She patted his shoulder fondly. “Go on now. I have to get back to work. Don’t be a stranger, Sam!”

 

“Did you pay?” Dean asked Henry in a low voice, seeing the white paper sack he was clutching in his hand.

 

Judging from the panicked look Henry shot at Maryanne, he hadn’t, but Dean knew that arguing with Maryanne when she’d made up her mind was useless. “Never mind. Go on and get in the car, Henry. We still have to stop at Howl’s.”

 

“Howl’s?” Henry’s face lit up. “We’re getting a dog?”

 

“We are if you hurry.” Dean watched as Henry shot out the door, and then turned back to Maryanne. “You spoil them.”

 

“They’re the closest thing to grandchildren I’m likely to have, Dean Winchester, and I’ll spoil them if I like,” she replied tartly. “Get out of here.”

 

“What was that about?” Sam asked quietly as they left the drugstore and headed back to the Jeep, where Henry was fidgeting with excitement.

 

“Maryanne’s the mayor. Her husband had the job, but he died during the apocalypse, as did their only daughter.” Dean glanced behind him, remembering all of the times Maryanne had managed to get them exactly what they needed when they needed it. “She’s a good woman. The best.”

 

Sam nodded. “Yeah, she seemed really nice.”

 

Dean suspected that there was more going on behind Sam’s stony exterior; he could just about hear the wheels turning in Sam’s head. He had no idea what Sam was thinking, whether he approved of Dean’s life now or not. Dean knew that Sam hadn’t expected to find him living so normally, but he told himself that it wasn’t any of Sam’s business.

 

Sam hadn’t been around to object, after all.

 

~~~~~

 

Sam felt just as uncomfortable at Howl’s as he had in the small, tidy grocery store with the talkative Henry, or in Maryanne’s comfortably cluttered drugstore with its jars of homemade candies on the counter.

 

He’d spent the years since the apocalypse in one back alley after another. Sam had lived among—and become one of—the scum of the earth, and here was Dean, a pillar of the community.

 

His brother—his hard-drinking, horndog of a brother—was a fucking _father_, taking in orphans and in a stable relationship with an ex-angel.

 

Sam still didn’t quite know what to do with it all, so he kept his mouth shut and his hands in his pockets, standing off by the jeep as Dean and Howl completed their exchange.

 

Henry was down on the ground, giggling as the rust-colored hound planted oversized paws on his chest and bathed his face with her tongue. Dean watched with a pleased grin. “I can’t thank you enough, Howl.”

 

“None of that now,” Howl replied, a matching grin on his own face as he watched Henry with the puppy. “I know you’ll take good care of her, and she’ll work hard for you.”

 

“I’ve heard stories about your hunting dogs.” Dean rubbed his beard. “We’re grateful to have her.”

 

Howl nodded. “You bring her back here every week, or have one of your boys bring her. I’ll get them started training her.”

 

“Sounds great, Howl.” Dean shook the man’s hand again, then waved to Henry. “Let’s get home, Henry.”

 

Henry stood, gently dislodging the puppy from his lap. “Okay. Thank you, Mr. Howl!” he said without prompting.

 

“You take good care of her, and that’ll be all the thanks I need, son.” Howl’s faded blue eyes landed on Sam, who flushed under his scrutiny. “Told your brother, and I’ll tell you. I’ve got work around here that needs doing if you’re looking for work.”

 

“Yeah, thanks,” Sam managed, surprised at the kindness. “Don’t know how long I’ll be staying, though.”

 

He very carefully did not look at Dean when he said that, feeling the awkward silence like a heavy weight. Howl and Dean exchanged a final set of pleasantries before taking their leave.

 

The silence was easier to handle on the drive back to the house, filled as it was with Henry’s voice, offering quiet reassurances to the trembling puppy. Sam kept his eyes out the window, looking at the slowly passing scenery, the tall grasses that lined the road and the trees just beyond.

 

It was so peaceful here, and such a stark contrast to the world he’d left behind.

 

When Dean pulled up in front of the house, there was already another car there, an ancient wood-paneled station wagon, packed to the gills.

 

“Papa Dean? Who is that?” Henry’s voice was suddenly cautious. “Why are they here?”

 

“I’m sure they’re just here to see me and Cas, Henry,” Dean replied, parking the car. “Why don’t you take the pup to the back, okay? I’ll bet the other kids will want to see her.”

 

Henry nodded, but it was clear that some of his pleasure had been dimmed. Sam climbed out of the Willys and watched as Henry put the puppy down and then coaxed her to follow. “Be sure to find something to leash her with!” Dean called after him.

 

Dean scrubbed his face with his hands. “Okay. We’ve got—”

 

Ben pulled up on his motorbike. “Dad! I bagged two deer! I’m going to need some help, though.”

 

Dean snorted. “Never a dull moment around here.”

 

The front door opened and Cas stepped outside. “Dean? I’m going to need your help.”

 

Sam watched as Dean nodded, his face taking on that familiar intensity he had worn during a hunt. Dean’s eyes narrowed, calculating, then he turned to look at Ben. “Take the Jeep, Ben, but unload her first. Sam? Would you mind helping him?”

 

Sam knew that he couldn’t refuse, not when Dean was putting him up and feeding him. “No, of course not.”

 

“Great. Thanks.” Dean didn’t look back as he limped towards the house and up the front steps.

 

Sam saw how Cas put an arm around Dean’s shoulders, and how Dean leaned on Cas subtly, and he knew that Dean would have refused the same sort of offer from him.

 

Ben had already pulled out the boxes of dry goods and stacked them next to the house, looking more animated than he had the previous day.

 

“Two in one day,” Sam said, trying to make conversation, climbing back into the passenger seat while Ben slid behind the wheel. “Pretty impressive.”

 

Ben shrugged, but Sam could see the pleased flush creep up his neck. In that moment, he looked so much like Dean at that age it made Sam’s heart ache. “It’s no big deal.”

 

Sam didn’t reply, instead turning his head to get a better look at the passing countryside as they bumped along an ancient gravel track. He was unable to shake the idea that he didn’t belong here, and that he never would.

 

Maybe he was just too damaged.


	6. Sioux Falls, South Dakota, Spring 2011

Dean looked out on Bobby’s front yard with a sense of relief. The snow had finally melted, and the first signs of spring were clear in the buds on the trees and greening grasses, the small, purple flowers sprouting near the foundation of the house. The faint breeze held none of the biting chill it had even a week before, and Dean could feel something in his chest loosen from its tight knot.

 

They had survived; spring was here, and winter was done.

 

Dean heard the telltale squeak of Bobby’s wheelchair as he approached, and he made a mental note to hunt up some oil. Bobby would appreciate it.

 

“What are you doing out here, boy?”

 

“Just taking a minute.” Dean didn’t say anything about missing Sam, or about wanting Cas, or about needing a little time where he wasn’t looking after a couple of kids, one of whom refused to speak.

 

He just needed a little space, and Cas was keeping the kids busy with their lessons, so he had a chance to breathe.

 

“You all right?”

 

The way Bobby asked, Dean knew he expected a lie. “I am.” He was being honest this time, and he turned to face Bobby so that the other man could see that. “Cas and I have been talking. This has been great, Bobby, but we can’t stay here forever. You don’t want a couple of kids running around here all the time, and it’s close quarters right now.”

 

“I don’t mind,” Bobby replied, and Dean knew _that_ wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either. “But I thought you might say that. I got a line on a job for you and Cas.”

 

“A job?”

 

“Friend of mine has a house out west. It’s in the middle of nowhere, but there’s a town nearby that did all right during the apocalypse.” Bobby wheeled himself a little closer. “Just got word he died over the winter, and they’re having trouble. Kids are getting sick, and it doesn’t seem natural. Won’t know until you head out.”

 

“I’ll have to talk to Cas about it.” The words were out of Dean’s mouth before he thought better of them. That made it sound like they were a couple.

 

Bobby chuckled. “Sure, you will. He said to let you know he’s about done with their lessons.”

 

Dean nodded. “Yeah, okay. Would you mind—”

 

“Nah. I can keep the little rascals busy making dinner.”

 

He chuckled. Ben and Mary were both good kids, and hardly any trouble at all. Mary might not speak, but that didn’t mean she was deaf, and she made herself known pretty well most of the time. Cas had even figured out a rudimentary sign language that worked just fine.

 

“What good are kids if you can’t put them to work?”

 

“Exactly. We’ll see you at dinner time, Dean.”

 

Fifteen minutes later, Cas stepped out onto the porch, closing the door carefully behind him. “Bobby said you wanted to see me.”

 

“Yeah. You want to go for a walk?”

 

Cas looked him up and down, and Dean knew Cas was gauging his strength to see if he was pushing himself too hard. “Of course.”

 

They stepped off the porch, Dean feeling his way across the uneven ground of Bobby’s yard with his bad leg. He had to be careful these days, and Dean knew by now that he’d never be as fit as he had been.

 

“Lessons are going well,” Cas announced.

 

“Ben, too?”

 

“He’s settling down,” Cas replied. “Your talk with him helped.”

 

Dean had lied his ass off, telling Ben that the schooling Cas was giving him would be of use someday. And maybe it would be useful; Dean had told Ben that knowledge was never wasted. Maybe his kid would want to be a doctor, and by the time he was old enough to go to college, there would be a place he could go.

 

From what Dean had heard and seen, however, he suspected that what he had to teach Ben would be more useful. Still, he thought that Lisa would probably want their son to get at least the equivalent of a GED, and Cas enjoyed teaching them.

 

They hiked up one of the hills; the dry, brittle grass was turning supple again, and Dean plucked a stem, spinning it between his fingers. From the top, they could see for miles around, the light breeze and warm sun making the trip worth it, even if Dean’s bum leg ached from the exertion.

 

“Did Bobby talk to you?”

 

“About the job? Yes.” Cas’ face was lifted to the sky, and Dean wondered idly if he ever regretted not finding his father. “I think we should go.”

 

A little taken aback by Cas’ blunt statement, Dean replied, “Yeah. Okay.”

 

“You will always feel like an intruder here,” Cas said, turning from his contemplation of the sky to look at Dean. “And Bobby will always feel as though we’re visiting, and he will always be waiting for us to leave.”

 

Dean breathed a sigh of relief; Cas had put into words his own feelings that had been building for the last month.

 

“If Sam comes looking for us, Bobby will tell him where we have gone.”

 

Dean scowled. He didn’t want to think about Sam. “Sam would have been here by now if he’d planned on coming. He’s long gone, Cas.”

 

Cas didn’t reply, instead regarding Dean with a steady gaze that soon had him squirming.

 

“What?”

 

“I just want to look at you.” Cas smiled briefly. “I don’t have much opportunity these days.”

 

Dean stared back, and suddenly the last few months—the feeling that had been there—rose up and overwhelmed him. He took a half step closer to Cas and stopped, suddenly uncertain.

 

Cas reached for him, pulling Dean in, and their lips met. As though Cas’ touch had lit a fire, Dean gripped Cas’ shoulders, thrusting his tongue into Cas’ mouth, thrusting his pelvis forward, feeling the heat of Cas’ skin through layers of denim and soft cotton.

 

“Dean,” Cas murmured against his skin. “Dean.”

 

Cas said his name like a prayer, and Dean answered it with hands and mouth. “We can stay out here,” Dean suggested softly when he finally pulled back to catch his breath. “We can—just for now. Bobby—”

 

“I want to stay with you.” Castiel’s hands framed Dean’s face, and one callused thumb traced his cheekbone. “I want to _be_ with you. I’ve wanted it so long.”

 

Dean pulled him in again, and they both sank to their knees, mouths still joined. Cas was a fast learner, and he followed Dean’s lead, his lips moving hungrily in wet, sloppy kisses. He lay back on the grass, pulling Dean on top of him.

 

“It’s still too cold to strip,” Dean murmured against Cas’ throat, hearing Cas groan with pleasure. “Just—I’ll make it good for you, Cas. I’ll make it so good.”

 

Cas didn’t reply, but his hands thrust up under Dean’s jacket and t-shirt, finding warm skin. Dean shuddered at Cas’ cold hands, but he fumbled at the button at the top of Cas’ jeans, pulling down Cas’ zipper and reaching under the waistband of his boxers for Cas’ erection.

 

Dean pumped his hand once, twice, and Cas arched under him. “Dean.”

 

“Yeah, I got you,” Dean promised. “It just gets better from here on out. I promise.”

 

“I believe you.” Cas’ hands were fumbling at Dean’s pants, but Dean was trying to focus on Cas, on making him feel good, so that they could do this again and again and again, so that Cas would go on wanting him, go on wanting _this_.

 

This was Cas’ first time, and Dean hadn’t deflowered so many virgins that the novelty had worn off.

 

Dean still remembered his first time fondly, as fumbling and hurried as it had been. He wanted Cas’ first time to be good, to feel special.

 

Finding his rhythm, Dean stroked Cas’ cock, groaning as Cas found an accompanying rhythm. “You’re a fast learner.”

 

“I’ve been watching you a long time.” Cas twisted his wrist in a motion Dean swore he’d learned watching Dean jerk off.

 

Dean hissed, trying to last just a little longer. It had been so long—so long since he’d had the time and energy to touch himself, longer still since someone had touched him like this. “Always suspected you were a kinky bastard.”

 

“Just for you,” Cas murmured. “Only for you.”

 

Dean came then, jerking his hand just a little faster, gratified when Cas’ hips bucked helplessly against, come spurting over Dean’s fist.

 

He collapsed on top of Cas, burying his face in Cas’ neck. After a long moment, Dean ventured, “You okay?”

 

“Better than,” Cas assured him. “It was good, Dean. Thank you.”

 

Dean laughed. “You don’t need to thank me, Cas. Next time, I’ll be able to last a little longer.”

 

“I didn’t notice.”

 

“You wouldn’t, this being your first time and all.” Dean rolled over onto his back and wiped his come-smeared hand on the grass. “I should be thanking you.”

 

“For what?”

 

“Sticking with me,” Dean began. “Teaching the kids, helping Bobby. Just—everything.”

 

“It’s been my pleasure.”

 

“You can’t mean that.”

 

“I do.” Cas rolled up onto his elbow, looking down into Dean’s face. “I know you don’t believe you were worth saving, Dean, but you were. You are. And you’re worth falling for, too.”

 

Dean wanted to tell Cas that he loved him, that what he felt couldn’t be anything but love—but it was so much more than that. It was different than anything he’d known before, and he couldn’t manage to get the words out.

 

“Thanks.”

 

Maybe Cas read the words in his eyes, because he offered Dean a dazzling smile. “I know. Me, too.”

 

That was enough; that was more than Dean had ever expected.

 

~~~~~

 

The trip to Cypress Grove, the small town near where Bobby’s friend had lived, took two days. Just a year ago, it would have taken hours, but with gas being so scarce, they’d needed to take things slow, stopping where they could at gas stations or abandoned vehicles to buy or steal gas, respectively.

 

Ben and Mary had both been worried and clingy before they left, although Ben had tried to hide it behind a sullen attitude. The final day before they left, Ben refused to speak to Dean at all, making for a very silent house.

 

Mary just insisted on sitting in Cas’ lap; she’d developed a connection with Cas that Dean had learned not to question. She was content to stay close to him most of the time, but now she wanted to be in his lap if he was sitting, or in his arms if he was standing.

 

Ben stuck close to Bobby and ignored Dean and Cas, turning his back anytime either of them entered the room, just in case they didn’t read his silence right.

 

The morning that they left, Dean knelt down in front of Ben and promised, “I will do everything in my power to come back for you. I want us to have a place that’s ours.”

 

“This place is ours!” Ben burst out, the first thing he’d said to Dean in two days, and Dean had missed his son’s voice _so much_. “We’re just fine with Uncle Bobby.”

 

“The thing about staying with other people is that you’ve got to leave sometime,” Dean replied. “This is just a scouting trip to see if it will work out, okay?”

 

He had deliberately not told Ben about the possible hunt. Landlines were back up, but only about half the time, and they didn’t get much distance. Cell phones were even worse. They were lucky that news had reached Bobby at all.

 

“No, it’s not. You’re going to hunt monsters.” Ben’s eyes were accusing, and he seemed to sense the flinch that Dean struggled to hide. “I want to come with you.”

 

Dean gripped Ben’s shoulders. “The reason I taught you to use a gun is because I’m going to need you to protect Bobby and Mary when we’re gone. Bobby can take care of himself, but he has a harder time now that he’s injured. Promise me.”

 

Ben straightened, his expression becoming one of grim determination, as he seemed to realize that Dean wasn’t lying. “Okay. I promise.”

 

“That’s my boy.” Dean pulled him into a rough hug, then turned to Mary, who had already said her goodbyes to Cas. “You be good for Bobby, okay?”

 

She nodded, silent as always, but she threw her thin arms around Dean’s neck in an enthusiastic hug that had him blinking back tears. Mary was so withdrawn with everyone but Cas that it meant something special when she responded like this.

 

And then they’d left, driving under blue skies that never seemed to end. The earth was coming to life all around them. By the second day, the buds on the trees were beginning to burst open, and they spent their night on the road sleeping under the stars.

 

Mostly sleeping, anyway. It was just warm enough to strip down and make love, one sleeping bag between them and the ground, the other covering the two of them as they rutted against one another.

 

If it weren’t for the kids waiting back at Bobby’s for them, Dean thought he could live like this for a couple of weeks, spending long days on the road, and long nights under the stars, breathing the smell of damp earth and grass and clover.

 

He couldn’t quite hold back his sigh of disappointment when they approached the town on the second day. Cypress Grove itself was unremarkable, with one main street bisecting the town, and no sign of a stoplight. Dean parked along the main drag and climbed out of the Impala, glancing around at the well-kept buildings. It didn’t seem like the apocalypse had hit too hard here.

 

“Sense anything?” Dean asked in a low voice when Cas joined him next to the vehicle.

 

Cas shook his head. “Everything seems—normal.”

 

Dean snorted. “Normal?”

 

“Yes, Dean. Normal.”

 

“Huh. Well, let’s see if we can find Bobby’s contact.”

 

They didn’t get far from the Impala when a middle-aged woman came bustling towards them. She was on the heavy side, with frizzy dark hair streaked with gray, wearing an ancient, shapeless t-shirt and a long denim skirt. Dean might have dismissed her out of hand, but something about the way she moved spoke of both purpose and energy, and a personality that he didn’t want to cross.

 

“Can I help you gentlemen?” she asked, pushing her glasses back into place.

 

Dean hesitated. “Uh, I don’t know. Someone called a friend of ours, Bobby Singer, said they needed some help.”

 

Although Dean knew the name of their contact—Howard Walters—he didn’t know if the man had permission to call, or if Dean would get him into trouble by revealing their source.

 

“Oh, you’re the boys Howl called,” she said, proving that she knew exactly what was going on. “Wonderful. I’m Maryanne Olsen, mayor of Cypress Grove.”

 

“Dean Winchester,” he said, holding out his hand. “And this is Cas.”

 

Dean had thought long and hard about how he wanted to introduce Cas, but in the end, he thought it was better to say too little, rather than too much.

 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Olsen,” Cas said, shaking her hand.

 

He must have picked up some charm from Dean, because Maryanne laughed and flushed a bit. “It’s good to have you two here,” she said. “Why don’t you come back to the drugstore? I have a pot of soup on the stove.”

 

Dean hesitated, and then answered for the both of them. “Sure. Thank you.”

 

The drugstore was small, but relatively well stocked. Dean could see rows of bandages and other first aid supplies, side by side with over-the-counter medications and other odds and ends.

 

Maryanne led them through a storage room in the back and up a set of steep stairs to a dark wooden door. The small apartment above the store was neat, but cluttered, with knick-knacks and doilies covering nearly every available surface. She led them over to a round, oak table, too large for the space.

 

“Have a seat,” she invited.

 

Dean took one of the straight-backed chairs, trying not to wince as his knee popped. “It’s kind of you.”

 

“We’re hoping you’ll help us out,” Maryanne replied honestly. “Howl said that Bobby might know what’s going on.”

 

“Howl?”

 

“Howard Walters.” Maryanne set a full bowl of stew in front of each of them. “He said he knew someone who had an expertise in this sort of thing.”

 

“Bobby does, but he’s not up to hunting right now.” Dean hesitated. “We’re actually looking to stay. Bobby’s old friend, Shep—”

 

“Shep’s house is still empty, as far as I know,” Maryanne said briskly, glancing between the two of them. “So, it’s like that?”

 

Dean felt himself flushing under her keen gaze. “We’ve got a couple of kids. My son, and a little girl we took in this last winter.”

 

He was not above playing the sympathy card, and Maryanne’s face softened in a gratifying manner. “I see. I think Shep’s house will do you fine, although it’s going to need some work.”

 

“I can take care of that,” Dean replied. “Tell me what you’re dealing with.”


	7. Rural South Dakota, Mid-Summer 2016

Dean leaned into Castiel, allowing Cas to take his weight for a minute. “What have we got?”

 

“Terrance Jones. He thinks he’ll find work if he goes south—or maybe west. He wasn’t too clear on that.” From Cas’ dubious tone and slight frown, he thought the man was lying. “He heard we take in kids.”

Dean’s eyebrows went up. “He’s got his kid in there?”

 

“She’s been here the entire time.”

 

Dean rubbed his eyes, feeling a tension headache building up. “Does he know about us?”

 

Most people didn’t seem to care one way or another if he and Cas were a couple; what a person did counted for a lot more out here. Stupid prejudices didn’t hold up when you might need a neighbor’s help to stave off death.

 

Cas nodded. “My impression is that he might have had an issue with it if he’d been leaving his son, rather than his daughter, but he already found places for his two boys.”

 

“Aw, shit,” Dean muttered, beginning to get a clear picture. The station wagon packed to the gills, a man who wasn’t clear on his destination getting rid of his kids one by one—Dean supposed it was a good thing that Jones hadn’t up and left in the middle of the night, leaving his kids behind. There had been those who had, leaving their children to relatives or neighbors, or any other kind soul.

 

Dean finally sighed. “All right. Let’s get this figured out.”

 

Jones rose from his seat on one of the threadbare recliners as Dean limped into the room. He wiped his hands on the legs of his khaki pants before offering to shake Dean’s hand. “Terrance Jones.”

 

“Dean Winchester. Please, sit down.” Dean glanced over at the small figure on the couch. He probably would have assumed the kid was male if Cas hadn’t said otherwise. Everything—from the short, shaggy haircut to the oversized polo shirt and baggy jeans to the holey sneakers—said boy.

 

Dean took a seat in the other recliner across from Jones, while Cas remained standing, leaning on the back of Dean’s chair.

 

Jones cleared his throat as he took his seat again, prompting his daughter, “Casey, say hello.”

 

Casey remained stubbornly silent, head bowed and eyes on the floor.

 

“Casey!” the man barked, his face flushing with embarrassment. “Don’t embarrass me in front of these people.”

 

She looked up then, her thin, sharp-featured face dominated by a pair of large, dark eyes. Her black hair fell into her face and she swept it back impatiently. “Nice to meet you,” she muttered.

 

Dean suspected that she had better manners than she was showing, but he didn’t blame her for being pissed off. He’d never been thrilled when his dad left them somewhere for a hunt. “Nice to meet you, too.” Turning back to Jones, he asked, “What can I do for you, Mr. Jones?”

 

Jones let out a nervous laugh. “I, uh, heard about you from Pastor Joe. He said you two could probably look after Casey for a while.”

 

Dean made a mental note to have a word with Joe about letting people know that he and Cas were in the business of taking in strays. There was no way he was having this conversation right in front of the girl, however. “Maybe Casey could play outside,” he suggested. “Our son, Henry, just got a new puppy.”

 

Jones nodded reluctantly, and if Dean read the situation right, he’d hoped that Casey’s presence would force Dean and Cas into taking in his daughter. “Go on outside.”

 

She didn’t move, and Jones snapped, “Now, girl. Go.”

 

Casey rose slowly, walking out of the room with her feet dragging.

 

“We’re not a boarding house,” Dean said evenly once he’d heard the front door close behind her. “All of our kids here are orphans.”

 

Dean wasn’t about to make this easy on Jones, not when he was talking about abandoning his daughter, not when Jones had sought to put him and Cas on the spot.

 

“I’ve got two older boys,” Jones said quickly, a little desperately. “There’s a farmer that lives just outside Whitewood who needed the help, but he couldn’t take Casey. She’s too young, and—he couldn’t take Casey,” he repeated.

 

Cas broke in gently. “We have five other children here.”

 

“That’s how I knew she’d be safe. That’s what the pastor said that convinced me. I got—I got a line on a job. If I can make some money, I can come back for my kids.”

 

“What happened to their mom?” Dean asked.

 

“Died, two winters ago.” Jones hesitated. “I can’t pay you right now, but when I get back—”

 

Dean cut him off. “Most people who take jobs in the cities don’t come back, or if they do come back, they’re not the same.”

 

“I can’t take care of them.” Guilt carved deep lines on Jones’ tanned face, which was as unremarkable as his name. He was the sort of man Dean would have ignored in another life—not dangerous, not good-looking, but not ugly either. Nondescript, average build and mousy features.

 

Dean had learned how to read people over the years, and he suspected that Jones didn’t possess the sheer strength and determination keeping his family together would require. He might love his kids, but love wasn’t enough.

 

Cas’ hand squeezed Dean’s shoulder in a silent signal, and Dean nodded. “Casey can stay here until you come back for her, then.”

 

Gratitude shone in Jones’ eyes, probably as much for them allowing his kid to stay, as for not disputing Jones’ lie about coming back.

 

Hell, maybe he’d be one of the few who did just that—went to work, and found a place, and got his kids back from where they’d been scattered.

 

“Thanks. I—I should be going. I need to get on the road.”

 

“Of course,” Cas replied. “Please write if you can. We get mail through here on occasion.”

 

“Good to know.”

 

Dean thought it doubtful that Jones would write; more likely than not he’d leave here and not look back.

 

When they stepped outside, Dean saw Casey sitting on the front steps. Her shoulders were hunched, and she was shredding bark off of a twig.

 

“You be good now, Casey.” Jones moved to stand in front of his daughter, and Dean looked away, wanting to give them some privacy.

 

She rose slowly. “Don’t leave me here, Daddy.”

 

“I’m sorry, but you know I have to.”

 

“I’ll be good.” Casey’s voice was desperate, and Dean could hear the tears close to the surface. “I won’t be any trouble. I can help. I can work.”

 

“You’re too young. You stay here and be good.” Jones took a step forward, and for a moment, Dean thought he was going to embrace the girl, but he abruptly whirled, setting off for his vehicle at a half-trot.

 

Casey stood, frozen, watching as Jones pulled out two small suitcases, practically throwing them out of the car and onto the ground. Jones moved so quickly that he was already backing up when Casey came out of her stupor. She started running towards the vehicle, screaming, “Daddy! Please, Daddy!”

 

She was moving too fast for Dean to catch with his bum leg, but Cas wasn’t so hampered, and he ran towards her, scooping her up in his arms as Jones stepped on the gas, roaring out of the yard and raising up a cloud of dust. Casey fought him, kicking and screaming, pounding her fists against Cas’ back when he held on too tightly for her to reach anything else.

 

The noise brought the other kids running around the side of the house, and they stood in a loose semi-circle, watching as Cas held the weeping girl.

 

“Papa Dean?” Henry called uncertainly.

 

“We’re fine, Henry. Mary, take the kids around back, okay?”

 

She nodded and began herding the younger children away, picking Cora up and settling the young girl on her hip, nudging Ryan with her free hand.

 

Henry remained where he was, the puppy sitting at his feet, before he tugged on the dog’s makeshift leash.

 

Cas still held the girl; she had stopped fighting now, but she was still sobbing inconsolably.

 

“Let me take her,” Dean murmured. “You go see to the others.”

 

Cas hesitated a moment, but he released Casey, who stood with her hands over her face, shoulders shaking.

 

Dean waited until they were alone, and then he said, “Your dad shouldn’t have left you. You don’t leave family behind, and he was wrong to do it.”

 

“He said I was too young to stay with my brothers, too,” she sniffled, still not looking at Dean, “but I overheard Mr. Beam say that he didn’t want a girl.”

 

“Lucky for you, we like girls around here.”

 

Casey wiped her eyes. “I hate him.”

 

“That’s your right.”

 

“I don’t want to stay here,” Casey said, eyes narrowed and chin thrust out belligerently.

 

Dean shrugged. “That’s your right, too. Doesn’t change anything.”

 

She looked away, and Dean suspected that they were going to have trouble with this one.

 

“Come on,” Dean said. “I’ll give you the tour.”

 

He just hoped she wasn’t _too_ much trouble.

 

~~~~~

 

Ben followed a rough dirt track, his driving showing a practiced ease that somehow managed to remind Sam of Dean. They bounced along in a silence that was almost comfortable, and Sam got the impression that Ben wasn’t inclined to talk for the sake of filling up the quiet spaces.

 

“We’ll have to walk from here,” Ben announced when he stopped at the edge of a stand of trees.

 

Sam nodded and followed Ben through the trees. He’d once known how to move through the undergrowth of a forest easily, but it had been a long time since he’d been in anything but an urban setting.

 

By the time they’d reached the clearing, he was sweating with exertion, but the cool breeze felt good on his sweaty skin. There was something relaxing about moving through the quiet woods, even though he kept getting swatted by branches on his blind side.

 

The two deer Ben had boasted of already hung upside down from a thick branch that hung over a small clearing, about fifteen feet off the ground. The animals’ throats were slit, the blood mostly drained out by now.

 

“Good sized bucks.”

 

“They’re pretty young,” Ben replied, motioning to the thin, short antlers. “But that should mean tender meat, and it will be better than eating beans all winter.”

 

“Do you smoke it, or freeze it?”

 

“We’ve got a couple of large freezers in the barn,” Ben replied. “So, we’ll smoke some of it, and freeze the rest. Cas figured out how to cure the hides a few years back, so we keep those now, too.”

 

Sam hadn’t butchered an animal in a long, long time, and he allowed Ben to direct him with brief instructions.

 

Butchering was hot, nasty work, the flies quickly gathering around the carcasses. Sam hated the sticky feeling of blood on his hands, coating his arms up to the elbows before too long. Still, he was glad to pull his weight, even if it meant doing this.

 

“How far have you been?” Ben asked when they were about half-finished.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I mean, east or west or south,” Ben replied. “Because one of the kids from town, who’s a few years older than me, he went east to Chicago. When he came back, he was different.”

 

Sam focused on cutting through flesh for a moment, thinking carefully before he answered. “Cities aren’t good places to be right now.”

 

“Why?”

 

“When things went to hell, the rich had the money to take care of themselves and their families, and they could transport in and sell stuff to everybody else.”

 

“Ray said there weren’t many jobs.”

 

“Depends on where you go, I guess.”

 

Sam didn’t want to explain what he’d done to stay alive, the lines he’d had to cross. He’d prefer that the kid never knew.

 

He didn’t want anyone to know.

 

“Ray asked me to come along with him,” Ben said after a quiet moment. “I told him I couldn’t leave my dad, not with all the little kids.”

 

Sam suspected that Ben wanted to hear that his decision had been the right one, and he had no problem confirming that. “It’s better here. I’ve been a lot of places, and it’s better here.”

 

They finished packing the meat in butcher paper Ben had pulled out of the back of the Willys, and stashing it in the large, steel trunk that had held the groceries they’d unloaded earlier.

 

“That’ll hold it for a little while,” Ben announced. “Come on. There’s a place close by we can get cleaned up.”

 

Ben led them to a shallow creek bed, the water running along cheerfully after the recent rain. It was turgid, and a little cool, but both of them eagerly pulled off boots, rolled up jeans, and stripped off their bloody, sweaty shirts.

 

Sam wasn’t sure which was better—the hot shower he’d had the day before or splashing in the creek with Ben, who lost a little of his solemnity to kick water at Sam, laughing.

 

They dried their feet and legs with the dirty t-shirts and pulled socks and shoes back on, beginning the hike back to the clearing. Sam wasn’t looking forward to the trek back to the Jeep, since it would mean carrying the meat back with them.

 

“I’m really glad you came, Uncle Sam,” Ben commented out of the blue.

 

“Huh?” Sam frowned, not understanding where that had come from.

 

Ben shrugged. “This kind of thing is really hard on Dad, because of his leg, and Cas has enough to do. You being here—it’s easier.”

 

Guilt warred with pleasure as Ben’s words sank in, and guilt was winning. In Ben’s statement, Sam could hear an accusation about all the times Dean had to do without his help, all the times he’d pushed his bad leg too hard, or that Cas had taken on too much. How many times had Ben been given responsibility for something that Sam could have taken care of if he’d been around, thereby losing just a little bit more of his childhood?

 

The hell of it was, Sam didn’t have anyone to blame but himself. Then again, he had lots of practice living with guilt. One more burden wouldn’t break him more than he was already broken.


	8. Southwestern United States, late 2012

Sam stepped out of the alley cautiously. The car he’d spotted earlier that day hadn’t moved from where someone had parked it that morning. The driver’s side window had been smashed, but the windshield was in one piece, as was the back. That was all he needed to know.

 

He needed to get out of Oklahoma City, and he was willing to do whatever it took.

 

Stumbling slightly, Sam managed to sidle up close to the car he’d scoped out, slide the jimmy between the window glass and the door, and slip the locking mechanism. Smooth and easy, just like Dean had taught him ages ago.

 

Although Sam had long since realized that his peculiar upbringing had given him skills to survive the apocalypse, he’d also figured out that it was hard to steal from people who had nothing. And these days, most folks had nothing.

 

“Hey, man. You got something to sell? You sellin’ somethin’?”

 

Sam turned as he heard the bum’s wrecked voice, felt the smaller man bump into him. He probably wouldn’t have noticed the hands in his pockets, deftly picking out anything of value, but Sam had been raised by John Winchester.

 

And John Winchester didn’t raise any fools.

 

In a moment’s time, Sam had the man on his knees, howling in pain from a broken wrist, and Sam was picking up his wallet from the asphalt.

 

“Don’t fucking mess with me,” Sam spat, giving the man a quick kick, hard enough to bruise ribs, but not hard enough to break.

 

Sliding behind the wheel, Sam quickly hotwired the car, a little concerned that the man’s cries would bring help and witnesses he didn’t need. After the first burst of speed, when he was certain he wasn’t being followed, he slowed, knowing that he needed to conserve gas every way he could.

 

Sam drove south down I-75, dodging potholes, driving straight into the mess that was Dallas. He’d learned the hard way over the last year that most people in rural areas were quick to chase strangers off with a shotgun. Sam preferred cities, with their masses of people and quick, frenetic pace.

 

In a city, he could be anonymous, just another guy displaced by the apocalypse, looking for work.

 

Sam dumped the car in a deserted area of north Dallas, and then began to hike towards the downtown area. He’d heard there was a revival of clubs, restaurants and bars, but a “revival” meant different things to different people. In this case, it meant five places had opened with limited menus. What had been a nice area was now smoke-stained and trashed.

 

At the fifth bar, he saw a “Help Wanted” sign in the window, and Sam walked inside, his shoes sticking to the scarred wooden floor. Wading through the crowd, he sidled up next to the bar and waved the bartender over. “Beer, please.”

 

Maybe it was the courtesy, but the bartender had his drink to him in a couple of minutes, and Sam drank half of it in a couple of gulps. Leaning back, Sam began sipping a little more slowly, his eyes narrowing as he caught sight of a couple of guys bumping chests.

 

He’d been in enough fights to sense when one was brewing, but Sam waited until the first punch was thrown before stepping in. He grabbed the two men by their collars, knocked their heads together, and tossed them out the door before anyone else could get involved.

 

“That was neatly done.” A man standing next to the door said, his brown skin and dark hair shiny with sweat and pomade, respectively. “You are good with your hands?”

 

“I’m good with my hands,” Sam agreed. “I saw you had a ‘Help Wanted’ sign in the window. As you just saw, I can bounce, and I’ve tended bar in the past, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

 

The man looked him up and down, craning his neck to meet Sam’s eyes. Sam had a good foot on the guy, maybe close to 18 inches, and he tried not to loom too much. It didn’t pay to try to intimidate the prospective boss, even when Sam’s side was an advantage.

 

And this guy was definitely the boss—his belt buckle was silver, shiny, and as big as one of Sam’s hands. His boots were black, with silver-plating on the toes, and Sam could just make out the etching.

 

“Let’s have a drink, on the house,” the man said, waving Sam over to a small table in the back corner. “Tequila okay?”

 

“Perfect,” Sam replied, even though he didn’t much care for tequila. He would have preferred Johnny Walker, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

 

The man smiled. “I’m William Perez.”

 

“Sam Winchester.”

 

Sam sat down at the small table, feeling a bit like an elephant. He took the shot that the bartender brought over and followed Perez’s example when the other man knocked it back in one smooth motion.

 

“Have I heard of you?” Perez asked.

 

Sam shrugged. “I don’t know. Haven’t been in Dallas for a while.”

 

Perez smiled thinly. “But you’re looking to stay.”

 

Sam shifted uncomfortably under the other man’s stare. “Depends.”

 

Perez didn’t ask what it depended on. He merely nodded. “I see. I imagine we can work something out. I won’t ask if you’re comfortable with violence, because it’s clear that you are.”

 

Sam winced inwardly, but he didn’t respond to the obvious jibe. “Yeah, I can handle myself.”

 

“Clearly.” Perez’s musical voice was deceptively light, and Sam couldn’t help but wonder what Perez was looking for from him. “But can you deal with everything that goes on in this place?”

 

Sam frowned. “I don’t know what you mean.”

 

“Let’s just say that I supply a lot of needs. I don’t want business interrupted.”

 

“I don’t give a fuck what you’re dealing,” Sam replied bluntly. “It’s your business, not mine.”

 

Perez smiled thinly. “Do you think you can crack a few kneecaps when necessary?”

 

Sam took a deep breath, giving the question serious consideration. “And if I decide I’m done, if I want to walk away, can I?”

 

“You’d be an employee,” Perez replied in a tone of voice that Sam immediately distrusted. “And, of course, I would compensate you well.”

 

“Of course.” Sam met his eyes, and then nodded. “Let’s talk terms.”

 

~~~~~

 

Three months later, Sam still worked Perez’s bar and anywhere else Perez ordered him. Most of the time, he managed to not think about what he was doing.

 

Sam had managed to not think about a lot of things over the past couple of years.

 

“Early owes me money,” Perez announced as Sam wiped down the bar. He had the early shift on Tuesdays, which made it easier for Perez to draft him to do his dirty work.

 

Sam sighed. “Early owes everybody money, Perez.”

 

“But this time, he owes _me_ money, and that’s the difference.” Perez smiled easily. “I need you to make an example of him, Sam.”

 

This was the part that Sam hated.

 

He shrugged his shoulders, feeling dirty just from Perez voicing the request. “Early is—”

 

“Heading down the wrong path,” Perez supplied easily. “If you’re the one making an example of him, Early has a chance to survive. You know that, Sam.”

 

He did. Sam knew it was true; if Perez sent someone else after Early, he was as good as dead. If Sam went, he had half a chance of convincing Early to get out of Dallas but still leave him able to move.

 

“I’ll take care of it.”

 

“Tonight, Sam,” Perez warned him. “I need this done before my business suffers.”

 

Sam gave a tight nod. “Yeah, sure. I’ll handle it.”

 

This was the last job, Sam told himself. He had enough now to make it out of Dallas, maybe all the way to Nevada. He’d heard there was still a booming business in Las Vegas, which made sense. People still liked their sin, even if the end of the world had been narrowly averted.

 

He’d break a couple of bones, warn Early to head out of town, and then he’d be off himself. It was time for Sam to shake the dust of Dallas off his feet.

 

Perez gave Sam a knowing look, as though reading his mind. “Bring Early back here, Sam. I want to see what a good job you’ve done.”

 

“I’ll take care of him,” Sam promised.

 

Sam didn’t have any trouble finding Earl “Early” Boudreaux, who had camped out on a barstool at one of the few open places in town, just blocks from Perez’s place. He didn’t know if Early was unaware that Perez was looking for him, or if he was just that stupid, but he slid onto the stool next to him with an easygoing smile.

 

“Hey, Early.”

 

“Sam.” Early gave him the stupid smile of the drunk. “How’s it going, man?”

 

“Not so great,” Sam admitted, deciding to go for honesty as much as he was able. “Perez sent me after you.”

 

Early’s face fell. “Aw, come on, Sam. You know I’m good for it.”

 

“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be here, Early,” Sam replied. “I need you to come with me quietly.”

 

“Fuck that!”

 

Sam sighed as Early tumbled off the stool and began to dodge through the crowd. “Shit.”

 

Early was half-trashed, and he couldn’t move very fast, making it easier for Sam to catch up to him. He snagged Early by the back of his denim shirt and dragged him back into the alley east of the building. “You shouldn’t have run, Early.”

 

“Sam, come on! Tell Perez I got away.” Early’s whine grated on Sam’s nerves and that made it easier to smash his fist into Early’s face.

 

“I have to bring you back,” Sam replied. “You should know better than to borrow that much money.”

 

He worked Early over methodically, closing his ears to the cries of pain, trying not to cause permanent damage while making it look good. He knew what Perez expected, although this was the first time Perez had sent him after some piss-ant boozer with a penchant for running up a tab.

 

Sam didn’t mind going after the dealers so much, the ones who had somehow crossed Perez, or had lost a shipment. One less dealer on the street was the way Sam looked at it.

 

This was different, but Sam had lost what few qualms he had about getting his hands dirty months ago. What was beating up one more guy in comparison to starting the fucking apocalypse?

 

When Early was unconscious and bruised, his face swollen, Sam dragged him back to Perez’s place and took him in through the back.

 

One of the bartenders watched as he dragged Early into the storeroom, and Perez appeared in the doorway as soon as Sam dumped the body in a corner.

 

“He dead?” Perez asked. “Because I didn’t ask you to kill him.”

 

“Unconscious,” Sam replied, stepping back. “He might be gunning for me once he comes to.”

 

“Nah, he’ll know who sent you.” Perez offered a shark’s grin. “Come have a drink with me, Winchester. Wash the taste of that trash out of your mouth.”

 

Sam didn’t bother mentioning that it wasn’t Early who’d left the bad taste in his mouth. Other than this errand, Sam wasn’t working, and although he wasn’t stupid enough to think that Perez would front him enough alcohol to get drunk, that’s exactly what Sam planned on doing.

 

Perez surprised him, though. Sam got most of a bottle of off-label whiskey to himself, and he drank slowly but steadily, stumbling out of the bar around 2 am. He had a flop nearby, and he did just that—flopped onto the ancient, lumpy mattress.

 

Sam stared at the watermarked ceiling, some rust-colored from the old pipes, and he thought some of the splotches looked a lot like bloodstains—like the ones on his jeans from Early.

 

“Shit,” Sam muttered, throwing an arm over his eyes. “If Dean—” He stopped, the words sticking in his throat.

 

This was why he didn’t drink; it cost money he didn’t have, and he got swamped by old memories.

 

He couldn’t do this anymore; Sam knew he had to get out of Dallas. He’d head south, maybe west, in the morning. Steal a car, siphon gas, do whatever it took to get out from under Perez’s thumb.

 

It wasn’t like Dallas had anything to hold him.

 

~~~~~

 

Sam’s drunken, early morning decision to leave held up in the cold light of day. Perez still owed him for a week’s worth of work, but Sam didn’t plan on sticking around to collect. He knew that if he didn’t act immediately, he’d stay, get caught up, end up stuck in Dallas the way Early had been.

 

He’d seen it happen in Perez’s bar, had seen it happen in Ok-City, the last place he’d stayed for any length of time. People got stuck a lot easier these days, and sometimes it was easier to stay stuck than it was to pack up and leave.

 

Sam didn’t plan on getting stuck.

 

He snuck out early, found a car to steal far enough away from Perez’s not to raise any alarms, and started driving. He took I-35 south, because he’d heard that San Antonio and its River Walk hadn’t been hit quite as hard by the apocalypse.

 

Where he could, Sam stopped and stole food, siphoned gas, slept in the ancient Cutlass off the interstate.

 

He took the time to see the Alamo; he’d been in San Antonio before, but had never gone. They had always been on the tail of some monster, and whatever ghosts the old fort held had long been exorcised.

 

It was there, reading the tarnished plaque by the entrance, that Sam felt a wave of homesickness pass over him, so strong he nearly turned around and started driving north right then.

 

He could go back the way he came, heading north, straight up 35, to I-29, and then to Sioux Falls and Bobby’s.

 

Bobby would call him an idjit and tell him to get inside, and Sam could stay under wide blue skies, in the midst of rusted-out cars, and let the wind blow over him until he was clean again.

 

But when he thought of Bobby’s, Sam couldn’t help but remember that Dean would have left Ben there. He would have made certain that Ben was safe, and Ben might be there still—so much like Dean that even the thought made his chest ache.

 

Sam feared that seeing Bobby—and possibly Ben—again would bring Dean’s loss into a sharp focus nothing could dull.

 

So, he’d just continue on—west, and then north into Nevada, and on to California.

 

Maybe he couldn’t outrun Dean’s death, but he could damn well try.

 

~~~~~

 

He took highway 87 northwest, and then I-10 almost straight west to Juarez. The guards at the border were more interested in their card game than in Sam, and they waived him into Mexico without searching his car or asking for paperwork.

 

Sam found a cantina still doing a brisk business, and he thought longingly of a beer and a meal that wasn’t pre-packaged and stale. He entered after only a moment’s hesitation, sitting down at the bar and paying for a blue-plate special and a bottle of beer up front.

 

The food was good enough that Sam cleaned his plate with the plentiful tortillas that accompanied the meal. When the plate had been cleared, he felt a presence next to his elbow. “Hola.”

 

The girl who spoke was young and very pretty, with large dark eyes and dark hair with a tinge of red. “Hola,” Sam replied, clearing his throat with a deep swallow from the bottle of beer.

 

“Habla español?” she asked with a smile.

 

“Un pequito.” Sam shrugged apologetically. “I’m an American.”

 

“Sí.” She smiled and put a hand on his wrist. “My name is Laura.”

 

“Laura.” He smiled. “I’m Sam.”

 

He knew what she wanted as soon as she touched him, and Sam allowed himself to want. Perez had offered women, but most of them had been prostitutes, and he’d been hesitant to sample the wares. Maybe, if he’d been around for long enough, he might have done just that.

 

This girl was willing, however, and he covered her hand with his own.

 

“There is a place, out back.”

 

Sam followed her to the alley behind the cantina. She shoved her hands under his shirt as soon as they were outside, and Sam pushed her back against the wall in response. Laura was willing and warm, and Sam raised her skirt, finding her thighs and pulling her legs around him.

 

Her mouth opened under his, and Sam thrust his tongue inside her mouth, sucking and licking and biting.

 

Laura returned his kiss with fervor, and Sam moaned when he realized that she wasn’t wearing underwear. Fumbling with the fly on his jeans, Sam let his pants drop around his ankles as he thrust up inside her. It had been so long since he’d been with anyone, since he’d come with anything but his hand for company. Sam didn’t last long, and he thought of nothing but his own release.

 

When he was done, he let her go, putting her back on the ground. Sam belatedly realized that Laura had tears running down her cheeks.

 

“I’m sorry,” Sam blurted out. “I’m sorry.”

 

Laura shook her head, unable to speak immediately.

 

“I’ll make it up to you,” Sam promised. He’d never made a girl cry during sex before; they had always been pretty happy with his performance. Laura’s tears made him feel like an idiot, though, and Sam felt only relief when she nodded.

 

Maybe he was the rotten bastard who had started the apocalypse, but he didn’t want to add “made girls cry during sex” to his list of sins.

 

Sam slowed down a little, focusing on Laura, and on the sounds she made as he thrust a finger inside her. She was barely wet, and Sam concentrated on making her respond to him, to his fingers and lips.

 

Sam had enough experience with women to have her writhing around him in short order, his thumb manipulating her clit as his fingers learned her responses.

 

When she came with a cry, it felt like a bit of absolution, as though he wasn’t a complete fuck-up.

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, holding her through the aftershocks. She might just be a girl he’d never see again, but Sam had no desire to break something—someone—else.

 

“I’m fine.” Laura smiled, and from the way her eyes crinkled around the corners, she meant it. “Better than fine. Thank you.”

 

Sam stepped back and pulled his pants up, giving silent thanks that no one had come by. “I don’t—”

 

“I wanted you to take me with you,” Laura blurted out. “Somewhere else, anywhere else.”

 

Sam sighed and shook his head. “Other places are pretty much the same, Laura.”

 

“But they are not here.”

 

“No, they’re not.”

 

Sam didn’t know this girl, didn’t know how she’d feel about long days on the road, stolen food and water, nights under the stars. He suspected that she was desperate enough not to care, desperate enough to trade sex for transportation, and he felt guilty enough to offer.

 

“I can’t take you far,” he warned. “Las Cruces, maybe.”

 

“Far enough.” Laura offered a fierce smile. “I can be ready in an hour.”

 

Sam’s ass ached with the thought of driving farther that night, but he nodded anyway, guilt making him agree.

 

Guilt over the apocalypse, guilt over the blood spilled by his own hands, guilt over being an insensitive ass the first time around.

 

He could get her as far as Las Cruces, maybe farther if necessary, and he could absolve this small guilt. Maybe, just maybe, he could save her and save himself at the same time.


	9. Rural South Dakota, Mid-Summer 2016

Dean hadn’t been able to celebrate Ben’s good luck and skill because he’d been too busy getting Casey settled, but he always made it a point to praise his kids’ achievements. He figured criticism would stick better that way.

 

So, as soon as Ben and Sam returned and unpacked the meat, Dean called Ben into the kitchen.

 

Ben’s expression was a little wary, but he broke out in a grin when Dean shoved a small glass of mead in his direction. “Congratulations, son. You made quite a haul.”

 

“Thanks.” Ben sipped the amber liquid like a pro, and sat down at the kitchen table to Dean’s left. “I can get started smoking it tomorrow.”

 

“Henry and I are going fishing in the morning,” Dean replied. “I can give you a hand once we get back. Mrs. Kavinsky’s arthritis is acting up again, so Maryanne asked for Cas.”

 

Ben shrugged. “It’s cool, Dad. Henry’s been itching to go fishing for a while now.”

 

Dean thought of the childhood his son should have had—and what he willingly gave up to look after the younger kids and shoulder his share of the burden.

 

“Maybe you should come with us,” Dean suggested, trying to figure the logistics in his head; someone had to stay with the little ones, and Dean wasn’t quite ready to ask Sam, which left Ben and Mary. And with Casey being new, Dean didn’t want to leave Mary without backup.

 

The fish generally stopped biting mid-morning, so Dean would be home by noon, but that left the kids alone during the morning, and Ben and Mary would be better able to take care of things if they tag-teamed.

 

They would have better luck at White River, but that meant a day-trip. The local creek afforded some good trout, and a few other kinds of fish, and time was too precious to spend it fishing when nothing would likely come of it—much as Dean would like to do nothing but cast a line all day.

 

“We should head up to White River this fall.” The hopeful grin on Ben’s face cemented the plan for Dean. “We’ll camp out a few days, eat what we catch, hunt some turkey.”

 

“All of us?”

 

Dean grinned. “Yeah, all of us. It’ll be like a real family vacation for once.”

 

“We don’t take family vacations,” Ben countered. “Not since…”

 

He trailed off, but Dean knew that Ben was referring to the trips they used to take to see Bobby, before the old man had died. The last trip out to Sioux Falls had come shortly after Henry had come to stay with them, and they hadn’t left the farm since—unless a hunting trip had come up.

 

“I know.” Dean let his words hang, hoping Ben understood that Dean _did_ know, that he had some inkling of how hard—how different—life was for them. He didn’t have to say it out loud, so he changed the subject. “You saw the car when you pulled up?”

 

Ben nodded. “I saw. New kid?”

 

“Casey,” Dean replied. “Her dad left to find work, and he couldn’t take her along.”

 

Ben’s snort of derision indicated what he thought of that. If there was one lesson that his own dad taught Dean, and that Dean had passed along to Ben, it was that you didn’t leave family behind. Not ever, not for any reason.

 

“That’s what I said, too,” Dean said mildly. “But that means we’ll have one more for dinner for the foreseeable future. Cas seems to think we’ll get by.”

 

Ben nodded slowly. “Yeah. How old is she?”

 

“Eight, or about that.”

 

“She won’t eat much then.” Ben rubbed his jaw in an unconscious imitation of Dean, and he couldn’t help the swell of pride that rose in him.

 

All of the kids he and Cas had taken in over the years were theirs, but Ben was _his_. Ben was special.

 

“Can’t say for sure,” Dean reminded him. “But Pastor Joe was the one to send her this way, so I imagine we’ll be getting some help. Roger’s got that side of beef, and we’ll get pork from Orrin, too.”

 

“The garden is doing well,” Ben pointed out, sounding optimistic. “If Cas and Mary manage to can as much this year as they did last, we’ll be in good shape there, too.”

 

Dean grinned. Cas and Mary had canned like fiends the previous year, and he could still remember walking into their kitchen to find Cas flushed with the steam and heat, dressed in a pair of cut-offs and an ancient tank top. It had taken all of Dean’s willpower not to take him right there on the kitchen floor, but they’d had a remarkable night.

 

“We will. I think we’ll—” Dean stopped when he heard the floorboards creak in the doorway. Sam stepped into the room a moment later, and Dean frowned, wondering how much Sam had overheard, and what had put that expression on his brother’s face.

 

Sam looked freaked out, and Dean felt a stirring of unease. From the moment Sam had arrived, Dean had expected him to run again, because that’s what Sam did. But Dean wasn’t the only one who would be left behind now. Ben was already thinking about Sam staying long-term.

 

“Hey, Uncle Sam.” Ben greeted Sam easily, and Dean remembered that all he’d told Ben was that Sam had disappeared in the middle of the apocalypse. So many people had lost touch with loved ones, it was no wonder that Ben didn’t question it. Ben looked at Dean, “Hey, maybe we should outfit the loft in the barn for a double room.”

 

Dean forced a smile. “For you and Sam, huh?”

 

Ben looked at Sam. “Sure, why not? I mean, we could use the extra room, and the porch isn’t going to work past September.”

 

“Sam?” Dean asked. “You thinking about sticking around for the winter?”

 

“Sure.” Sam’s smile looked forced to Dean, and he suspected that Sam only said that because Ben had asked. “Like I said, I don’t have anywhere else to be.”

 

Dean thought for a moment. “The loft is big enough that it might work for three people. Mary may want her own space.”

 

“Sounds perfect.” Sam’s words indicated agreement, but Dean still didn’t think Sam would stick it out.

 

He never did.

 

Still, Dean wasn’t about to let onto his suspicions in front of Ben. “Then we’ll plan on finishing out the loft. Cas and I have been talking about it anyway.”

 

And even if Sam didn’t stay, at least Ben and Mary would have their own rooms to go to if they wanted. That would be something.

 

~~~~~

 

Sam had somehow believed that Dean’s family was static. Dean had five kids when Sam appeared, and that was as many kids as he’d ever have. Granted, Sam hadn’t expected Dean to have _any_ kids, other than Ben, so maybe he shouldn’t be so surprised when a sixth one popped up.

 

But just a couple of days after Sam arrived, Dean had taken in a new stray, and Sam knew the house had already been bursting at the seams. There wasn’t room for him, there weren’t enough resources for him, and Sam didn’t fit into Dean’s new life.

 

It would be better for everyone if he left, just took off before anyone got used to him being around.

 

Feeling some reluctance, Sam followed Ben and Dean outside to the barn, and he followed behind as they ascended the ladder, talking plans. “It wouldn’t take too much to finish this off,” Dean admitted as they looked around. “I’ll talk to Ernest about insulation, and Jerry should have some spare lumber.”

 

“Awesome.” Ben’s face was alight with pleasure, and Sam was forcibly reminded of a hot summer’s afternoon at Bobby’s, one of those times that their dad had left them, when Bobby had taken them to the local pool.

 

Dean had taken on a lot of responsibility from an early age, but at Bobby’s, Dean let down his guard a bit. Now, at this moment, Sam could see that same maturity on Ben’s face, brought on by worry over others.

 

And here Sam was, just adding to their burden.

 

“What do you think, Sam?”

 

He started, blinking at Dean, lost in his memories. “What?”

 

“What do you think?” Dean repeated. “You still with us?”

 

“Yeah, sure,” Sam managed. “Sorry. I was just—thinking.”

 

Dean smiled, but his expression held none of the openness of Ben’s. “No problem. I was just saying that we could start finishing this space next week. Shouldn’t take too long with another pair of hands.”

 

“Happy to help,” Sam replied, hoping that he sounded sincere—and he was sincere. He just didn’t know how long he’d be around.

 

Dean nodded. “Great. We’ll start drawing up plans and get going. Coming, Ben? We need to get some steaks.”

 

“Right behind you, Dad.”

 

Sam stayed put. Dean hadn’t invited him to accompany them, and he didn’t feel like tagging along.

 

A wave of self-pity washed over him, and Sam slapped a hand on the wooden wall. He wasn’t so far gone that he was willing to break his fist punching solid wood, especially since it would mean explaining a broken hand to Dean and Cas, not to mention half a dozen kids.

 

Sam ran a hand through his hair, and began to pace across the loft. The sun streamed through the open windows at both ends. There were no screens, and no glass, although Sam had seen the shutters pressed up against the outside walls.

 

It was a great space. A hundred years ago—at least, it felt like a hundred years to Sam—he would have responded the same way Ben had. This would have been a perfect bedroom when he’d been a kid—away from the main house, with just a hint of independence, and yet still not too far away. Sam suspected that Ben had been thinking about this plan for a while, and that his presence was merely an excuse to do what he’d wanted.

 

With Sam here, Ben could get what he wanted, and no one would care too much once Sam was gone.

 

“There you are.”

 

Sam whirled to see Cas’ head popping up through the trap door. “Cas. Did you need something?”

 

“I wanted to talk to you.” He emerged fully into the room, wearing the same canvas trousers and blue t-shirt he’d been in the day Sam had arrived. “Do you have a minute?”

 

“I’ve got all the time in the world,” Sam replied, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “What did you need, Cas?”

 

Cas stopped several feet away, his face taking on that familiar intensity. Castiel had looked that way when he was an angel, when he’d first given up the search for God to stay with Dean full-time. Sam felt a chill as he realized what sort of conversation this was likely to be.

 

“You’re thinking of leaving,” Cas stated. His tone left no room for argument.

 

Sam opened his mouth to deny it, and then said, “You don’t need me here.”

 

“No, we don’t,” Cas replied bluntly. “We needed you six years ago. We’ve learned to live without you, and without your help.”

 

Sam swallowed hard at the harsh words. “Cas, I didn’t know.”

 

“You didn’t try to find out,” Cas shot back. “Bobby was there, Sam. You _knew_ where Dean was going, _knew_ that he’d leave Ben with Bobby. I was present when he told you as much.”

 

There was no response, no excuse, Sam could give. “I know. I just—I didn’t. I couldn’t.”

 

“I understand.”

 

Sam let out a sigh. “You do.”

 

“Yes, I do. I understand making a choice, Sam. Why didn’t you come?”

 

Sam shook his head. “I wanted to. I picked up a phone to call Bobby half a dozen times, but I knew I wouldn’t be any good for Ben. I’m still not. I’m no good for you.”

 

Sam suddenly found himself shoved up against the wall, Cas’ hands gripping the front of his shirt, holding him tight.

 

Sam could breathe—just—but he swallowed hard when he felt the raw power in Cas’ hands.

 

“You’re being a self-pitying jerk,” Cas said conversationally. “Do you know what Dean went through? How often he called Bobby, hoping that you had made contact? How he flinched every time we heard news from a hunter, because he was sure he’d hear news of your death?”

 

“And I thought _he_ was dead!” Sam cried out. “I was told—”

 

“You didn’t call Bobby, that’s on you,” Cas snarled. “Dean’s grief, that’s on you, too. I searched for you in Norman, Sam, but you were gone.”

 

“I—”

 

“No.” Cas pushed him up against the wall again, and the back of Sam’s skull hit the rough boards hard. “No, you’re going to listen. I’m going to tell you this as a favor, because I don’t believe you meant any harm, and because you’re Dean’s brother.”

 

“What?” Sam choked out.

 

“Dean will forgive you, given enough time. If you stick it out, he’ll get over you leaving, because he knows what Kevin told you, and why you believed what you did.” Cas held him in place. “We don’t need you, but Dean’s never stopped wishing you were here.”

 

“He’s pissed off I left.”

 

“Of course he’s pissed off. You don’t know what we went through, what we had to do just to keep ourselves fed and clothed. But he’ll forgive you if you stick it out.” Cas gave him another shove for emphasis. “And if you leave, you leave soon, and you never come back.”

 

“What?” Sam choked out.

 

“That’s the deal,” Cas replied. “Dean will forgive you for not trying going to Bobby’s, or trying harder to find him—eventually. You’re his brother, and he still loves you. But if you leave now, he’ll never get over it, and you’ll never be welcome here again.”

 

Cas released him and took a step back. “That’s the deal. Stay, or go. Whatever you do, it’s up to me to make sure Dean weathers it when you decide to leave again.”

 

“What am I supposed to do if I stay?” Sam demanded. “I don’t fit here. I’m—”

 

“You’ll do what the rest of us have done.” Cas’ voice cracked out over the space between them. “You’ll find something worthwhile, and you’ll learn how to build, rather than to tear down. I doubt you’ve had much experience with that, but you’ll figure it out.”

 

Sam felt as though he’d been slapped. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

 

“And you don’t know what Dean has done.” Cas’ mouth twisted into a smile, as he turned to head back down the ladder. “I’m warning you, Sam—you either stay, or you go. I won’t let you hurt Dean again.”

 

Sam believed him; it was hard not to. Cas sounded fierce and completely angelic, like his old self, and he had a sudden realization. “You’re not human,” he blurted out.

 

“Not completely, no.” Cas turned to face him. “I made my choice. Dean doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter, and he’d only feel guilty.” Cas gave him a hard look. “I expect you to keep your mouth shut about this, Sam. If you have any love for your brother, you will.”

 

His feet clomped down the ladder, and Sam slid down the wall, resting his forearms on his knees, hanging his head. He knew that what Cas said about leaving was true—he could go, or he could stay, but he had one choice. There would be no going back once he made it.

 

Before, Sam could have pled ignorance, but now he knew the truth, he knew everything. In some ways, Dean’s life was an open book in front of him—farm, committed partner, some sort of work, and half a dozen kids.

 

In other ways, Dean was a stranger to him.

 

Sam rubbed his eyes, trying to sort out his thoughts. He knew that Cas had told him to make his decision soon, but Sam needed more time. He’d take a few days to wait and watch and see if he could find any sort of life for himself here.


	10. Eastern Pennsylvania, Early 2010

“Fuck!” Sam cursed as the internet went down for the fifth time in an hour.

 

“Let it go, Sam.” Dean looked up from the dog-eared cards he held fanned out in front of him. “Lines aren’t working tonight.”

 

Sam resisted the urge to throw his laptop at Dean’s head only by reminding himself that computers weren’t easy to come by these days, and he needed the research he had saved on his hard drive. “Did you call Bobby?” he asked instead, unable to keep the impatience from his voice.

 

Dean raised his eyebrows, signaling his own fraying temper. “I tried—twice. You know what the phone lines are like out his way. We haven’t had a clear connection in weeks.”

 

Sam did know, and that was part of the reason he was angry. Time was running out, and if they didn’t find the Colt soon, the chances were good that there wouldn’t be much of a world left by the time they killed Lucifer.

 

“Can’t _you_ find it?” Sam demanded.

 

Castiel glanced up from his own set of cards, his brow furrowed in a familiar way. Sam was beginning to hate that expression; it always appeared right before Castiel said something he didn’t want to hear. “What would you have me do, Sam?”

 

“I don’t know,” Sam replied, at a loss. “Just—find out where the Colt is.”

 

Castiel shook his head. “It’s not that simple.”

 

“You can find other things,” Sam shot back. “You found holy oil or whatever. Find the damn Colt.”

 

“It’s not that simple,” Castiel repeated, turning his attention back to his cards. “This is not an angel’s business.”

 

“What do you mean?” Sam snapped. “It’s not your business? What the fuck?”

 

“Back off, Sammy.” Dean’s tone of voice indicated how close he was to blowing his top. “We’ve been over this.”

 

“_You’ve_ been over this.” Sam could feel his tenuous hold on his temper slip. “Cas has never given me a straight answer.”

 

Castiel glanced up from his cards again. “I’m cut off from the Host. I might be able to locate oil from the Holy Land—if that is, indeed what you’re referring to—but the Colt is shielded from angels. I’ve known where the oil was for a very long time; I didn’t have a personal interest in the Colt until recently.”

 

“But you _could_ find it,” Sam insisted.

 

Castiel sighed, a sound that echoed in the room. “Not without leaving, and you need me.”

 

“Not as much as we need the Colt,” Sam shot back, regretting the words almost as soon as they left his mouth.

 

“Sam!” Dean glared at him.

 

“Sorry,” he muttered immediately. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

 

“Yes, you did,” Castiel replied calmly. “But I forgive you.”

 

Sam was unable to think of a reply, and so he grabbed his jacket and stalked towards the door of the abandoned house they’d found refuge in. Nearly new, plush carpet softened his footfalls, and a well-hung door that refused to slam pissed Sam off all over again. Childishly, he’d wanted to make a real exit. He wanted to stomp out and slam the door behind him.

 

Sam wanted Castiel to be as pissed off at him as Sam was pissed off at the angel.

 

Stalking across the snow covered yard, Sam paused as he reached the sidewalk. He didn’t have anywhere to go; even open bars were hard to find these days. All of the restaurants they’d passed on their way into town had been boarded up, along with about half the houses.

 

Sam turned back to the house and realized that he could just make out Dean’s voice, floating through a broken window. Moving quietly across the yard, Sam crouched down behind one of the overgrown rose bushes. The dark brown mulch muffled his movements enough so that Sam didn’t worry about being caught.

 

This appeared to be the perfect time to find out what Dean and Cas talked about when he wasn’t around, and maybe get an idea of what their relationship was really all about. Sam didn’t understand it, but sometimes he felt as though Dean treated Castiel as Sam’s replacement.

 

“Not that I mind, I mean,” Dean was saying. “It’s just that you haven’t gone off on one of your God-hunts for weeks, and you were pretty gung-ho on it before.”

 

Sam could feel the silence from his spot under the window. “You said yourself that you could not reach Bobby because the phone lines are unreliable.”

 

“Lines _and_ towers,” Dean agreed. Sam heard a thunk and guessed that it was probably Dean thumping his cell phone against the wooden table. “So?”

 

“So,” Castiel began in that deliberate way of his, and Sam couldn’t help but be a little jealous that Dean could get answers, and he couldn’t. “If you needed my assistance, there would be no way for me to know, and no way to find you if I left and you traveled on.”

 

“Oh.” There was a lull and the thin slap of cards, and then Dean continued. “So you _are_ perching on my shoulder now.”

 

“I still fail to understand why humans insist on viewing angels as bird-like; we aren’t like birds at all.” Amused exasperation sharpened Castiel’s tone, and Sam thought Cas was probably affronted at the idea. He wondered what Castiel would prefer humans compare angels to.

 

“You have wings,” Dean pointed out cheerfully.

 

Sometimes Sam thought it was obscene how Dean managed to find humor in anything, how he couldn’t remain serious for long—the rest of the time Sam was absurdly grateful for Dean’s ability to make him laugh, however reluctantly.

 

Castiel snorted, a sound unlike any Sam had heard him make before. “You saw them _once_.”

 

“They were cool.”

 

“What you saw was merely a shadow of the reality,” Castiel responded, but his tone was pleased.

 

If Sam didn’t know better, he would almost think that Dean and Castiel were flirting.

 

“So, what are angels like if not birds?” Dean asked, and now his tone was teasing, and Sam was reminded of a hundred bars where Dean had charmed the cocktail waitress into free drinks.

 

Judging from Castiel’s silence, he was either offended by the question, or he was thinking about it.

 

“I believe angels are more like dogs.”

 

Sam raised his eyebrows, and Dean echoed his own thoughts. “Dogs? Really?”

 

“We are swift to obey and fierce in battle, so yes.” There was a break, and Castiel asked, “Is this right?”

 

“Well, a pair of kings isn’t nothing, but it’s not great,” Dean replied. “If that’s all you’ve got, and everybody else is still in, you should fold—unless you know they’re bluffing. Would you know if they’re bluffing?”

 

“Perhaps,” Castiel responded evasively.

 

“You can still read minds, right?” Dean pushed.

 

Sam could almost hear Castiel’s shrug. “What does it matter?”

 

“It matters because we might need that ability.”

 

“And this?”

 

“It’s an inside straight; we’ve been over this.”

 

“I’d prefer not to cheat, Dean,”

 

“It’s not cheating,” Dean insisted. “It’s like using a tell.”

 

“What’s a tell?”

 

Sam leaned his head against the siding, tuning out the ensuing conversation, which had something to do with poker, and the differences between a flush and a straight. This was at least the third time Dean had tried to teach Cas to play; Dean kept insisting that Cas would have the best poker face in the world if he could just learn how.

 

Sam suspected that Castiel played dumb because he thought it was funny, and probably because he didn’t quite approve of gambling.

 

He had no idea how long he’d been crouching under the window, lost in his own thoughts, when Castiel’s gravelly voice startled him. “Were you planning on staying out here all night?”

 

Sam shot to his feet, getting tangled in the bush, and feeling the shock of adrenalin rushing through his veins. “No. Does Dean—”

 

“I didn’t see a need to tell him you were out here.” Castiel stood motionless just a few feet away.

 

Castiel didn’t appear to be bothered by the idea that Sam had overheard their conversation, but as Dean often pointed out, angels didn’t have the same understanding of privacy and personal space that humans did.

 

Dean, on the other hand, would kick his ass. “Thanks. Where is he?”

 

“He went to bed. I told him I would keep watch. You should get some rest as well.”

 

“Yeah, probably,” Sam responded. “Look, Cas, about earlier…”

 

“It’s okay, Sam.”

 

“No, it’s not. It’s just that we need to stop Lucifer before things get worse, but it’s like Dean isn’t even interested in finding the Colt. He keeps putting it off, and I just don’t get it.”

 

Castiel let out a breath. “He wants to save people.”

 

“So do I!” Sam protested. “Killing Lucifer &lt;i&gt;_is_&lt;/i&gt; saving people.”

 

“Dean needs the immediacy of rescuing people; it is something he knows how to do. Stopping the apocalypse is too large a goal if Dean is not also saving people at the same time.”

 

“We know how to kill Lucifer,” Sam argued, stepping closer to Castiel, looking down at him.

 

Castiel didn’t even blink. “Are you certain that the Colt will work?”

 

The silence filled the space between them, Castiel’s face lit only by one of the few streetlights still on. His gaze was intense, the lighting making his blue eyes huge and dark.

 

Sam looked down, focusing on Castiel’s loosened tie. “It’ll kill anything supernatural.”

 

“I agree that the Colt presents our best chance for killing Lucifer and making it out alive, but it may not work.” Castiel cocked his head. “Is it any wonder that Dean wishes to save those he can, rather than chasing after something that may not be attainable?”

 

Sam found he couldn’t argue, even though he wanted to. “We can’t save everybody.”

 

Castiel’s lips tilted up in a smile. “When has that ever stopped Dean from trying?”

 

~~~~~

 

Dean tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder as he dismantled his gun. “Glad to hear you’re still in one piece, Bobby. It’s been awhile.”

 

“Phone lines have been down,” Bobby’s gruff voice replied. “Damn phone company can’t keep ‘em up with all the storms we’ve been having.”

 

“Figured it was something like that,” Dean replied, carefully laying out all the pieces of the pistol out on the towel and picking up the gun oil. The familiar routine soothed him. “How’s the rest of it?”

 

“I’m still in the damn chair, if that’s what you’re asking. Is that angel of yours still hanging around?”

 

Dean glanced up, seeing Castiel sitting on the purple leather couch, elbows resting on his knees. As many abandoned houses as they’d stayed in over the last few months, Dean would never stop being surprised at furniture choices.

 

This house was a little more worn than the last, and judging from the dust inside, had been abandoned longer. It didn’t matter, though—new house, new argument with Sam. They had been fighting non-stop over the last three weeks, all over the Colt, how they were going to find it, and what they were going to do in the meantime.

 

“Cas is still here,” Dean finally responded, smiling when Castiel looked up to meet his eyes.

 

Bobby snorted. “Maybe he can keep you boys out of trouble.”

 

“Don’t count on it.” Dean grinned as he wiped down the gun barrel. “Call us when you can, Bobby.”

 

“You do the same.”

 

Every time Dean got off the phone with Bobby these days, it felt like the last time.

 

“How is Bobby?” Castiel asked.

 

“About the same.” Dean stuck the swab down the barrel and began to clean it out. “I got a line on another case. Sounds like a vengeful spirit, but we won’t know for sure until we get there.”

 

“Sam is going to want to look for the Colt,” Castiel warned.

 

Dean snorted. “So what else is new? Sam can look all he wants. Until we have a solid lead, we keep doing what we’re best at.”

 

Castiel made a noncommittal sound.

 

“Spit it out, Cas.”

 

Castiel rose to stand next to the busted bay window overlooking the yard. Like every other abandoned house they’d been staying in, they had known no one was home by the long grass and weeds in the yard, plus the broken windows. Looters had been here, and cables hung from the wall where the television and phone had been.

 

“I believe my presence is making Sam uncomfortable.”

 

Dean scowled at his gun. He’d noticed the tension between Sam and Cas. “He’s just not used to you the way I am,” Dean replied. “Give him time.”

 

“It’s been months.”

 

“Sam just—” Dean sighed. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

 

“I can’t leave,” Castiel said, a little desperately. “The risk—”

 

“No one’s asking you to, Cas. I want you to stay, and Sam knows we need you.” Dean rubbed his hands over his face. “He’ll deal.”

 

Whatever Castiel might have said in response was cut off by the ringing of Dean’s phone; looked like everybody was taking advantage of the chance to call. “Yeah?” he said into the battered cell.

 

“Dean?”

 

It took Dean a second to place the woman’s voice, and his eyebrows went up. “Lisa?”

 

“Yeah, it’s me. Dean, I need you.”

 

Dean felt a pang of fear. He’d tried to keep in touch with Lisa and Ben as much as possible, but Dean hadn’t talked to either of them for months now.

 

“What’s going on?” he asked, hearing the weariness in his own voice.

 

“People are going crazy here.” The fear in Lisa’s voice was apparent, even over the crackling connection. “And it’s getting worse.”

 

Dean rose and began to pace. “What do you want me to do about it?”

 

“You’re the only one I could call,” Lisa shot back. “You’re the only person I know who can protect Ben. I went out for groceries last week, and someone just came into the store and began shooting. His eyes were black.”

 

“What else?” Dean asked, although he already knew the answer.

 

“People getting sick,” she admitted. “The hospitals are so full, they’re not admitting any patients. The whole town is falling apart, and there’s no gas, so I can’t even get Ben out of here.”

 

Dean wanted to ask where she’d go; it was the same story everywhere else—natural disasters and plagues and people following their basest impulses. And wasn’t that the problem right there? Dean could do jack shit for them, couldn’t even take them somewhere safe, and would likely wind up putting them in more danger with his presence alone.

 

He glanced over at Castiel, whose face was impossibly blank.

 

“Lisa, I don’t think—”

 

“I lied.” Desperation colored her voice. “I lied about you not being Ben’s father.”

 

Dean sank back down onto the couch, his stomach roiling. Closing his eyes, Dean went over his options and quickly decided that he couldn’t afford not to believe her.

 

“All right,” he managed, his mouth dry. “I want you to stay inside. Board up the windows if you can, and barricade yourselves in. Put salt in front of the doors and windows. Do _not_ let anyone in, unless it’s me or Sam.”

 

“Okay.” Relief made her sound breathless. “Dean, I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner, but—”

 

“It’s okay.” It wasn’t—not even remotely—but he was used to things being fucked up at this point. “We’ll be there as soon as we can. We’re probably about twelve hours away, but with things the way they are, I can’t make any promises.”

 

Gas shipments had been interrupted so often at this point that two out of three filling stations were closed down. Making a long trip like this was going to be a pain in the ass, especially in the Impala, which wasn’t the most gas-efficient vehicle on the road.

 

“I understand,” Lisa replied. “See you soon. Please be careful.”

 

Dean hung up the phone and turned to Cas. “Is there any way you could go ahead, get to them first?”

 

“I don’t think so.” Castiel sounded regretful. “There are many miles between here and Cicero, Indiana. If something were to happen to you—”

 

“I don’t need a babysitter, Cas!” Dean shot back, exasperated.

 

Castiel shook his head. “Trouble seems to follow you wherever you go, Dean, and I haven’t forgotten who must end this.”

 

Dean pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Right, yeah. I’m the righteous man who spilled blood in hell and started this whole fucking thing.”

 

“Dean!” The door burst open, and Sam ran into the room, a wide grin on his face. “I just got a call from Rufus. He knows who had the Colt last. We have a real lead.”

 

“Where?” Dean asked, although he didn’t have much faith that Sam’s new lead would be on their way to Indiana, or even close by.

 

“Texas.” Sam’s smile was dimming as he realized that Dean didn’t share his excitement. “What is it?”

 

“Lisa called me. She and Ben are in trouble.”

 

Sam was already shaking his head. “No, Dean. We can’t. We have to get to Texas as soon as possible before the trail goes cold.”

 

“She told me Ben was mine, Sam.”

 

Dean watched as understanding dawned; Sam’s mouth formed a grim line. “How do you know she’s not lying to you now?” he demanded. “She’s manipulating you, Dean.”

 

“Maybe she is, but I can’t chance it. If he’s mine—”

 

Sam cut Dean off. “Even if Ben is yours, it doesn’t matter. If we don’t stop Lucifer, the whole world is going to hell, and him with it.”

 

“He’s family!” Dean’s voice was getting steadily louder. Out of the corner of Dean’s eye, he saw Cas edging towards him, subtly announcing which side Cas was on. “He’s my son!”

 

“You don’t _know_ that!” Sam looked at Cas. “Tell him, Cas. You know if Lisa’s telling the truth, right?”

 

“No, I don’t. I have no idea if Ben is Dean’s son.” Castiel spoke slowly. Dean suspected he was lying, but if he was, Cas was definitely getting better at it.

 

Sam knew as well as Dean did that angels were sneaky sons of bitches, but he deflated slightly at Castiel’s response, probably because Sam couldn’t see any reason Cas would lie this time.

 

“Dean.” Sam’s voice was pleading now. “We have to stop this, and the Colt is the only way unless you want to be Michael’s vessel.”

 

“This is probably just another snipe hunt,” Dean replied, bitterness in his voice, remembering the last lead on the Colt, and their hope that it might finally be over. Instead, they’d both nearly been killed, and Cas had saved their asses.

 

That might be one of the reasons Castiel was refusing to leave Dean’s side now.

 

“This is Rufus,” Sam argued, making a wild gesture with his hands the way he did when he was truly worked up.

 

Dean swallowed his anger, knowing that a fight with Sam wouldn’t do either of them any good. “Rufus could be wrong. The last lead we had was from Bobby, and he was wrong. I’d take Bobby’s word over Rufus’ any day.”

 

Sam let out a breath. “Just—think about this for a minute, Dean. Lisa’s had how long to tell you that Ben is your son? She didn’t. And now, when she needs your help, she feeds you this line.”

 

“We’re not going after the Colt, Sam, not now. We can do that after Ben and Lisa are safe; we’ll take them to Bobby’s.” Dean had no intention of giving into Sam on this one, or of finding a compromise. There wasn’t one.

 

Sam’s eyes widened. “So, we’re back to this, huh? You’re going to tell me what to do?”

 

“This is different,” Dean snapped. “If it was a stranger, I might agree with you, but I’m not losing another member of my family for a fucking wild goose chase. Remember Adam?”

 

Sam flinched as though Dean had hit him at the reminder of their half-brother, but he recovered quickly. “This is the _Colt_. We _need_ this, and if you’re going to piss away our chance at stopping Lucifer because you’re such a fucking coward, I’ll go myself.”

 

Dean felt something inside crack a little at Sam’s words, the shaky trust he and Sam had rebuilt after the mess with Ruby crumbling. “And I’m not about to chase some myth on Rufus’ say-so. I get that you want to make this right, Sammy, and we both have our share of guilt, but we’re talking about a kid’s life here.”

 

“We’re talking about the fate of the world. You’re not seeing the big picture, Dean.”

 

“And sometimes I think all you see is the _big picture_,” Dean shot back bitterly. “All you care about is getting to the Colt and killing Lucifer, but you don’t see the bodies piling up—people we could _save_.”

 

Sam poked him in the chest, his face twisted up in anger. “You think I don’t care? You think I don’t get it, Dean? People are dying because of _me_. I’m not some heartless monster.”

 

Dean slapped Sam’s hand away. “I didn’t say you were, but you think the Colt is a sure thing, and it’s not.”

 

“Neither is Ben! What makes you think he’s your son?”

 

“Because I never believed Lisa when she told me he wasn’t!” Dean shot back. “Because I’ve kept in touch with her. Because she’s a decent woman, and Ben’s a great kid. Because I’m not going to chase something that might have been destroyed when I’ve got the chance to save him.”

 

Sam fell silent for a moment, and then shook his head. “I’m not going with you. I’m going to get the Colt. You can do whatever you want.”

 

Torn between his brother, and the boy who might be his son, Dean turned away, walking up to the broken window. He hated this. “Then you go,” he finally said. “Give me the information. Cas and I will try to meet up with you as soon as Lisa and Ben are safe.”

 

“You’re going to take them to Bobby’s?”

 

Dean nodded. “It could take a while.”

 

Sam swallowed hard, then appeared to accept the implications of what Dean was saying. “I know.”

 

Dean had to try one more time. “Sam, we can swing by, pick them up then head south. We don’t have to do it this way.”

 

Sam’s jaw was set in a familiar stubborn expression. “We need the Colt; we don’t have time to swing over to Indiana before heading south.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Sam winced. “Maybe we should plan on meeting up somewhere, just in case.”

 

“Four weeks,” Dean said. “We’ll meet up in between Bobby’s place and—where in Texas?”

 

“I’ll write the information down for you.”

 

The silence that fell across the room was strained as Sam wrote the information down while Dean pulled out the map. With the information from Sam, Dean mapped out a halfway point. “Four weeks, Sam. Even if you haven’t found the Colt by then, you meet us, you hear?”

 

Sam nodded. “I’ll be there.”

 

They stared at each other, and finally Sam nodded and picked up his bag. “Be careful, Dean.”

 

“Yeah, you too.” Dean watched him leave with a lump in his throat. Once the door was closed, he started throwing his own things into his duffel bag. “Get your things, Cas. We’re leaving.”

 

“I don’t have any things,” Castiel responded neutrally.

 

Dean snorted. “Yeah, I forgot.” He paused. “You think I’m doing the wrong thing.”

 

There was a long quiet moment. Dean kept his back to Cas, not wanting to see the disappointment or anger on the angel’s face. “I think that if this turns out to be another false lead, and anything happened to Ben or Lisa, you would never forgive yourself.”

 

“Yeah, I guess.” Dean zipped the duffel. “You were lying to Sam. You know the truth.”

 

“I don’t, but when we see Lisa I will,” Castiel confirmed. “Does it matter?”

 

Dean thought about Cas’ question for a moment before shaking his head. “No. It doesn’t.” He met Castiel’s eyes. “What about you? You going to take off on your own mission?”

 

“I killed my brothers for you, Dean. I disobeyed for you. I left everything I’ve ever known.” Castiel took a step closer, his nose only a couple of inches from Dean’s. Dean didn’t even protest the invasion of his personal space. “So, no. I have no other mission.”

 

Dean couldn’t reply through the lump in his throat. He couldn’t even brush off Castiel’s declaration by saying that Cas was just doing his duty; Castiel didn’t have orders to watch over him any more.

 

“Thanks,” Dean finally said, squeezing Cas’ shoulder. “Let’s get going.”


	11. Rural South Dakota, Mid-Summer 2016

Dean gutted the fish with an ease born of practice while Henry watched. When he finished the first one, he wrapped it in butcher paper and handed the knife to Henry. “Let’s see you do it now.”

 

Henry flashed a bright grin and began gutting the next trout, his expression a mixture of fascination and disgust. Dean tried to remember the first time he’d been fishing—it had been with his dad on one of the rare occasions he didn’t have some hunt lined up. Sammy had been about three, Dean seven, and he was fairly sure he’d worn the same sort of expression Henry did now.

 

He and Henry had headed out one of the local fishing holes early, before anyone else was up, with a thermos of coffee for Dean and a peanut butter sandwich for Henry. Dean had no idea what Sam was up to, but Cas had planned to go to town to see Mrs. Kavinsky, leaving Ben and Mary to look after the little ones.

 

Dean could have put Sam to work, he supposed, but he didn’t want to start depending on Sam now, knowing that he’d be off running soon.

 

A month—Dean would give Sam a month before he left again.

 

Henry had just finished cleaning the fish, and words of praise were on Dean’s tongue, when he heard shouts and the sound of breaking glass from the kitchen.

 

Dean pushed himself up off the low stump he’d been sitting on, limping inside as quickly as he could. He walked in the backdoor and through the small mudroom to see Ben, Mary and Casey in the kitchen. Casey’s face was flushed, her expression half-defiant, half-angry.

 

Ben cursed. “Shit. Look what you’ve done!”

 

“Ben—” Dean began, holding up a hand. Ben had a long fuse, but when he lost his temper, the explosion could be heard for miles.

 

In that, Ben reminded Dean a bit of Sam.

 

Mary began sniffling behind him, and he bit back a groan. He hated it when his kids cried, especially Mary.

 

“What the hell happened?” Dean asked as Sam appeared in the kitchen doorway behind Ben, and Henry pushed past Dean.

 

“Mary asked Casey to help her in the kitchen, and she pitched a fit,” Ben said tightly, with a hot glare for Casey. “She dropped the bowl.”

 

“It was an accident!” Casey protested.

 

“Quiet, both of you.” Dean spared a glance for the broken glassware and flour on the linoleum. “Hell. Did you lose any of the chocolate, Mary?” Dean asked.

 

She shook her head, clearly trying to hold back tears. Mary was a bit fragile; she was a sweet girl, sensitive and often easily upset.

 

“No big deal, then.” Dean smiled at her, hoping that she’d take his cue and pull herself together. “It’s just flour.”

 

Her hands moved quickly, and Dean saw the flash of temper there.

 

“Okay, I’ll send Sam into town for more.” Dean rubbed his eyes. He couldn’t send Ben out with Casey; his son was too angry. He needed to be sure that Mary was okay, and he needed to get the whole story.

 

Dean met Sam’s gaze, and he saw a tentative offer of help in his brother’s expression. “Okay, Sam, take Henry out back and help him finish up with the fish, and then maybe you could head into town for baking powder. We apparently left it off the list. You can take one of the bikes, or walk in, whatever you prefer. Where are Ryan and Cora?”

 

“Cas took them with him in the Jeep,” Ben replied. “I’ll stay with Mary.”

 

“Good. Help her with the mess.” Dean pulled Mary into a brief hug and pressed his lips to her forehead. “I know you’ll figure it out.”

 

She sniffed once and nodded, and Dean turned, relieved to see that Sam was already heading out back with Henry. Ben had apparently decided not to argue, because he had grabbed a broom, which left Dean with Casey.

 

The girl was across the room now, her back to the wall, shoulders hunched up around her ears.

 

“Let’s go outside,” he said. “Come on.”

 

Dean didn’t try to touch her; he didn’t know how she’d respond to physical contact. “You want to tell me what happened, Casey?” he asked as soon as they were outside.

 

Casey shoved her hands in her pockets, eyes on the ground. “Why? You’re just gonna believe your real kid.”

 

“We don’t have ‘real’ kids’ around here,” Dean shot back. “If you’re here, you’re one of us.”

 

“I’m not one of you!” she shouted. “My dad is coming back for me! He will!”

 

“Fine, he will,” Dean agreed easily. “And when he does, we’ll wish you well. Until he does, though, we’re stuck with each other.” He squatted down in front of her, wincing a little as his knee creaked ominously. “You know why Mary was upset?”

 

“Because food got ruined, and there’s not enough of it,” Casey mumbled.

 

Dean was grateful she hadn’t played dumb. “There’s enough of it if we’re careful. Now, you want to tell me your side of things? You won’t get another chance.”

 

With that warning, Casey shifted a bit, then finally said, “I don’t like cooking.”

 

“Was the broken bowl really an accident?” he pressed.

 

She shook her head, and now Dean could see that her eyes were shiny with tears. “I didn’t mean to. It just slipped.” At Dean’s warning look, she added, “I was yelling, and I didn’t hold onto it very well. I didn’t mean to.”

 

Dean rose back up to his feet. “I imagine you’ve figured out that there has to be some kind of order around here with so many people. Ben and Mary are the bosses when Cas and I aren’t around. You got it?”

 

She scowled. “I don’t like the girly stuff. I suck at it.”

 

“There aren’t things that are considered girly around this house,” Dean replied mildly. “There aren’t enough girls for that. We all pitch in, you hear me?”

 

Casey shuffled her feet.

 

“Look, kid, I’m going to level with you,” Dean said, his tone sharp. “There aren’t a lot of places you can go, so you’re going to have to make it work here.”

 

“I could have gone with my dad,” Casey muttered.

 

“Yeah, and he left you behind,” Dean shot back. “I know how that is, but it doesn’t give you license to act like a jerk.”

 

She kicked at a patch of scrub grass. “Sorry.”

 

Dean took a breath, hearing very little in the way of a real apology in her voice. The other kids—Mary, Henry, Ryan and Cora—had been grateful to have a safe place to stay with three meals a day. Their parents had already been gone, though.

 

He decided it was time to take another tack. “You know, when your dad comes back, this is where he’s going to look first. If you can’t get along, though, you’re going to have to go somewhere else. Hear me?”

 

She winced, and Dean watched his words sink in as a little of the tension left her shoulders. “Oh.” Her bottom lip trembled a bit. “I’m sorry.”

 

“I know, kiddo,” Dean said, now reaching out to squeeze her shoulder. “Me, too.”

 

He heard the high-pitched whine of one of the motorbikes, and turned as Henry came around the house, the puppy trotting along next to him, tripping on her oversized paws. “Dad! Uncle Sam said to tell you he was heading into town.”

 

“Good. Why don’t you take Casey, show her some of your outside chores, huh?”

 

Henry nodded. “Okay!”

 

Dean wondered if Henry’s cheerfulness would wear off on Casey at all, or if she’d manage to bond with any of his kids. She might have total faith that her dad would return, but Dean didn’t.

 

And with all the disruptions to the usual routine, Dean thought things might get worse before they got better.

 

~~~~~

 

Sam had been a little concerned that the motorbike might be too small for him, but Henry had pointed out a slightly larger model that Dean sometimes rode. He could have taken his own car, but the bike used less gas, and if he met up with Cas in town, they could load the bike in the back of the Jeep to save gas.

 

Still, Sam was grateful that Dean had asked him to help; it made him think that maybe he could find a place here, that maybe Cas was right, and Dean would eventually forgive him.

 

It was a perfect day for a ride, too—sunny and warm, but with less humidity than the day before, and a slightly cooler breeze. Sam pushed the speed, grinning into the wind and swerving to avoid a pothole. He made the trip in fifteen minutes and stopped at the store first.

 

The man running the cash register gave him a smile. “You’re Dean Winchester’s brother, right? Sam?”

 

“That would be me. Apparently, we left baking powder off the list yesterday.”

 

The man shook his head. “That Mary loves to bake. She’s been taking lessons from Maryanne Olsen a long while.”

 

Sam smiled. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

 

“Ron Davison,” he replied, holding out a hand. “Sorry about that. We tend to forget not everyone knows everyone around these parts.”

 

“Understandable,” Sam replied. “Hey, you seen Cas today?”

 

“He’d be down at Maryanne’s,” Ron said. “Saw him with the two youngest kids this morning.”

 

“Thanks.” Sam headed down towards the general store, raising a hand to greet Cas when he saw him and the kids just coming out. “Hey, Cas.”

 

“Sam.” Cas frowned, concern in his eyes. “Is something wrong?”

 

“Mishap in the kitchen,” Sam replied. “Mary needed more baking powder.”

 

Cas nodded slowly. “Did you want to ride back with us?”

 

“You promised you’d take us to see Miss Julia and Aubrey,” Ryan protested, tugging on Cas’ hand.

 

“Yeah, you promised!” Cora echoed.

 

Cas visibly hesitated. “Dean—”

 

“I can take them if you want to head back,” Sam said. “Or…”

 

Cas shook his head. “No, why don’t you come with us? Unless you have somewhere better to be.”

 

Sam snorted. “You know I don’t.”

 

“All right, to Miss Julia’s we go.” Cas grinned as Ryan and Cora let out a cheer and ran ahead. For the first time since Sam had arrived, both were fully clothed and wearing shoes, rather than running around in as little as they could get away with.

 

Cora’s hair bobbed up and down in pigtails, and Sam spared a moment to wonder who had done her hair that morning, whether it had been Cas or Mary. How many new skills had Dean and Cas had to learn over the years?

 

Strange, Sam thought. Their dad had taught him everything he’d needed to know to survive over the better part of the last decade; Dean had needed an entirely different set of skills.

 

“What did you decide?” Cas asked in a low voice.

 

Sam sighed, wishing that Cas had learned the fine art of not talking about things. “I don’t know. I want to stay.”

 

“Then stay,” Cas replied, his tone completely reasonable.

 

“Are you sure I’m wanted here?” Sam asked a little bitterly.

 

“Does that really matter?”

 

“Of course it matters,” Sam shot back impatiently. “Come on, Cas.”

 

Cas sighed. “There are adjustments that have to be made, Sam. It won’t be easy for anyone.”

 

“So, what do you want me to do?”

 

“Whatever you want.”

 

“That doesn’t help.”

 

“It has to be your decision.”

 

“Then what was that yesterday?” Sam asked.

 

Cas gave him a smile that held more than a hint of sarcasm. “That was me giving you a friendly warning.” He gestured to the small, brick house in front of them. “This is Julia’s house.”

 

The woman who stepped out to greet Ryan and Cora with friendly hugs waved at Cas as he approached. “Hey, Cas. How’s Mrs. Kavinsky?”

 

“Better, I think. Julia, this is Dean’s brother, Sam. Sam, Julia Walters.”

 

“Pleased to meet you,” Julia said with a warm smile and outstretched hand. “Dean and Cas saved my son, Aubrey’s, life.”

 

Sam bit back the sarcastic comment, not knowing whether Julia would appreciate it. Dean saved people; that’s what he did. He supposed it was nice to know that some things never changed.

 

“Do you two want some iced tea?” she asked. “And I made cookies.”

 

“We can’t stay long,” Cas replied, “but I’d love a cookie.”

 

Julia smiled. “Come on in, then. Oh, and before I forget, my car is acting up again. Would you mind letting him know?”

 

“Of course,” Cas replied, following her inside.

 

Sam headed in after them and wondered if this was ever going to be less weird.

 

~~~~~

 

Dean glanced up as Cas entered the kitchen. “You’ve got that look on your face,” Dean said. “What’s going on?”

 

“What look?”

 

“The look that says trouble’s brewing. You see Casey and Henry on your way in?”

 

“I believe they were trying to coax the puppy to sit.” Cas put the baking powder in the cupboard and sat down at the table across from Dean. “Doesn’t she need a name?”

 

Dean shrugged. “Up to the kids. How did Sam do?”

 

“Fine, from what I could see. We stopped at Julia’s on the way home. Her car’s acting up again.” Cas reached for Dean’s glass, and sipped from it without asking for permission. “Where are Ben and Mary?”

 

“Ben said he was going to take Mary for a walk.” Dean nodded at the counter. “They finished the cake between the two of them, but Mary said she wasn’t going to make any promises as to how good it would be.”

 

Cas shook his head. “Mary always makes good cakes.”

 

“She loves her chocolate cake.”

 

“How bad was it today?” Cas asked, sliding the glass back across the table towards Dean. “I know Sam said you were fine, but—”

 

Dean snorted. “Casey is pissed that her dad left her. Apparently, Mary tried to get her to help out in the kitchen, but she doesn’t do girly stuff.”

 

Cas shook his head. “Her father fucked her up.”

 

“She’ll fit in just fine around here, then,” Dean replied with bitter humor. “Do you think Sam will stay?”

 

The expression on Cas’ face indicated that he knew more than he was saying when he replied, “I don’t know, Dean. He may.”

 

“You talked to him, didn’t you?”

 

Cas’ lips tipped up in a smile. “And if I did?”

 

Dean sighed. “You know what? I don’t want to know. Have you thought about dinner tonight?”

 

“Let’s build a bonfire,” Cas suggested. “I pulled sausages out of the freezer the other day. Almost as good as hotdogs.”

 

Dean chuckled. “Sometimes I think you’re the next thing to a kid, Cas.”

 

“I never had a chance to be a child,” Cas replied. “We can go swimming. I think we may need a chance to get away from it all.”

 

“And Sam?”

 

“Don’t worry about your brother.” Cas rose from his seat, pressing a hand to Dean’s shoulder. “He has to find his own way. He always has needed that much.”

 

“I know.”

 

“I’ll get the rock salt,” Cas announced. “We’ll need ice cream to go with the cake.”

 

“You remember the first summer we were here?” Dean asked. “Maryanne brought pies and an ice cream maker, and we had a party.”

 

“Henry came that next fall,” Cas replied. “And we did just fine with him.”

 

“Henry was happy to be around other kids, and to have a roof over his head,” Dean pointed out.

 

“And then Ryan and Cora came.” Cas smiled. “We make room, Dean.”

 

“What do you think about finishing off the loft?”

 

“I think we’ve been meaning to do it for a while, and now would be the right time.” Castiel turned back, leaning down to give Dean a long, searching kiss. “Why don’t you start up a game with the kids? If you get them playing together, they might begin to trust one another.”

 

Dean nodded, although he didn’t move right away. He’d had the same thought, but his mind was still caught up with Sam, remembering what it had been like to be left alone with him for days at a time, the sheer misery on Sam’s face when he’d realized their dad wouldn’t be home for Christmas.

 

The amulet—Dean still had it, tucked away in the corner of his sock drawer. Cas had given it back after they’d moved out here, saying that he didn’t have a need for it, that he’d already found God.

 

Dean hadn’t worn it again, but he’d kept it safe.

 

“I don’t know if I can do this, Cas,” Dean said as Cas reached the door to the pantry. “I don’t know if this is going to work.”

 

Cas paused, and his eyes—sometimes Dean could see the angel he’d been, maybe even still was—and this was one of those times. Cas looked knowing, as though he knew more than Dean ever would.

 

“We’ll make it work,” Cas promised. “We always have before.”

 

“Is it too much?” Dean hated that he was asking for reassurance, but he needed it. “I know we’ve always had an open-door policy, Cas, but maybe this is too much.”

 

“We’ve been here for a long time, Dean,” Cas replied patiently. “As have Ben and Mary and Henry. We’ll make it work.”

 

Dean nodded slowly. “We always do. We’ll go night swimming, and have a bonfire. Maybe Casey will settle.”

 

He didn’t say anything about Sam, and neither did Cas. Sam was his own person, and maybe he’d stay, but maybe he wouldn’t. Dean never had been able to tell with Sam.


	12. Rural South Dakota, Fall/Winter 2011

Dean stood out on the porch, sipping bad coffee, watching as the dust cloud from the gravel road moved closer. Today was the second day using the grounds, which meant the coffee was a hell of a lot weaker than he preferred.

 

And, while he might not say it out loud, not in front of Cas or his kids, Dean _missed_ the real deal—hot and black and so strong it would put hair on anyone’s chest, as his dad might have said.

 

He sensed Cas’ presence next to his right shoulder, where Cas tended to station himself if not asked to do otherwise. “Good morning.”

 

“’Morning.” Cas sipped at his own mug. “It looks like Pastor Joe is coming for a visit.”

 

“Looks like,” Dean agreed. “Ben and Mary are still asleep?”

 

“I checked on them before I came down,” Cas acknowledged.

 

Dean folded both hands around the mug. “Good.” He grinned when Cas’ shoulder bumped his own, and he bumped back.

 

He felt himself responding to Cas’ proximity, and wished hard that Joe wasn’t heading up the gravel drive, or at the very least that he hadn’t seem the dust cloud over the horizon. At least then, Dean could have ignored it and buried himself in Cas and in the daily chores that came along with owning a homestead in the middle of South Dakota.

 

But he had seen Pastor Joe’s approach, and Dean knew that Joe wouldn’t come up this early if it weren’t important.

 

Cas freed one hand from his mug and wrapped an arm around Dean’s waist, and Dean leaned into the embrace, taking what comfort he could before company arrived.

 

When Joe’s rusted out Ranger rolled up in front of the house, Dean felt as though he might be able to withstand whatever Joe had in store for them.

 

Dean had been expecting Joe to ask Cas to give him a hand with sickbed visitations, or maybe to ask them to keep an eye on things while he was traveling. Dean hadn’t been expecting a boy, a few years younger than Ben, to climb out of the passenger door.

 

“Shit,” Dean muttered. “This can’t be good.”

 

Cas squeezed his shoulder. “I would agree.”

 

Dean snorted, but remained where he was as Joe and the boy approached. “Pastor,” he called out.

 

“Dean, it’s good to see you,” Joe replied. “I’m glad to find you two at home.”

 

Dean shrugged. “Where else would we be this early in the morning?”

 

“Hard to say, but I’ve heard White River has good fishing right now.”

 

Dean forced a smile. “Good to know. I do love fishing. What’s up, Pastor?”

 

“This is Henry Conway,” Pastor Joe replied with a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I thought you might have room for one more.”

 

Dean sighed, hating that he was being put on the spot like this. Even if they hadn’t had room, there was no way he was going to say that in front of the kid, and Joe knew that.

 

Damn him.

 

“Nice to meet you, Henry,” Dean said. “You hungry?”

 

Henry shook his head silently.

 

“We ate before we came,” Pastor Joe supplied. “I think Dean has a tire swing out back if you want to go play.”

 

Dean made sure they were inside, and well away from listening ears, before he asked, “What the fuck, Joe?”

 

“Maura Conway is dead.” Joe spoke quickly, as though he could convince them to take Henry if only he relayed the information quickly enough. “She was a single mother. Henry never knew his father, and he’s been living with me for the last two months.”

 

“Yeah, I know Maura by reputation. You’d better have a seat,” Dean sighed. “We might as well hear you out.”

 

As much as he hated to share, Dean poured Joe a cup of coffee and topped off his and Cas’ mugs. That was it for the day, and Dean tried hard to stifle any thoughts he had of the fresh grounds in the jar.

 

One pot per day—that was the rule. They didn’t have the supplies for more.

 

“Thank you,” Joe said quietly. “I appreciate it. I should have some supplies for you the next time I come through, Dean.”

 

Dean shook his head. “Supplies are great, but that doesn’t explain why the hell you want us to take the kid.”

 

“He needs children his own age,” Pastor Joe replied earnestly. Dean could understand why Joe was pastor of four counties, and had managed to build a couple of schools and keep himself well supplied. He could charm a miser out of his last coin, but Dean had been a con man himself, even if his goals had been slightly different from Joe’s.

 

Dean shook his head. “I don’t believe it. If it was just about needing kids his own age, you’d have left him with one of the families in town for the week.”

 

“His mother—”

 

“Is dead,” Dean said, cutting him off.

 

“Maybe she is, but I promised her that Henry would find a good home.” Joe sighed. “He’s only a couple of years younger than Ben and Mary, and he’s a good boy. I promised his mother.”

 

“Bullshit,” Dean said bluntly. “I know the woman you’re talking about, and she didn’t give a rat’s ass about her kid. She was shit-faced drunk most of the time.”

 

Dean had seen her a couple of times when he’d gone into town, begging for booze and money. Now that he’d placed her, he could remember seeing Henry, too, half-hiding behind his mother’s legs, or ducked down in a sheltered alcove near the corner where she begged.

 

“Be honest with us,” Cas urged the pastor. “We would like to help, but we need the truth.”

 

Joe sighed. “Of course. I persuaded Maura to allow Henry to stay with me a couple of months ago. It was supposed to be a temporary situation, but then she became ill and died, and you know how much I travel.”

 

Dean nodded. Joe was out of town more than he was in town, which was why Cas ended up doing a lot of his sickbed visitations, among other things that a pastor normally took care of.

 

“I can only do so much, boys,” Joe added when neither Dean nor Cas replied to him. “You have two kids not too far from Henry’s age, and you’re good with them. I thought Ben might like to have a little brother.”

 

Dean barked out a laugh. “You thought we could take him off your hands because we already had a couple of kids around, like one more wouldn’t make any difference. Do you know how hard we work to make sure the two children we have are fed and clothed?”

 

“What if I could promise you supplies?” Joe pressed. “You know I get paid in food and alcohol, and I don’t need much for just myself.” He hesitated, then added, “Henry could use a fresh start. He deserves one.”

 

Dean shared a look with Cas, and he read Cas like a book. They’d been together long enough now that Dean didn’t need any special angel powers to read Cas’ mind.

 

“You know we’re willing to take him,” Dean said after a moment. “I just want to be sure that no one is going to starve.”

 

“No one will.” Joe leaned forward. “There aren’t a lot of people around here who can take in children. You’re—”

 

“The best option available,” Dean finished for him. “We got it.”

 

“We’ll do it,” Cas added. “Henry will find a home here.”

 

Joe nodded, relief clear on his face. “Great. You two were my first stop. There were a couple of others, but I knew the placement wouldn’t be as good.”

 

Dean suspected that he knew who Joe was talking about. The farmers in the area might take spare kids, but they’d put them to work. And while there might not be anything wrong with that, it didn’t give children the chance to _be_ children.

 

The world had changed, though, and people had to change with it.

 

“Dad?” Ben spoke from the kitchen doorway, Mary’s hand clutched in his. Both of them were still in their pajamas, blinking sleep out of their eyes. “Is everything okay?”

 

“We’re great, Ben,” Dean assured him. “We’ve got someone else coming to live with us, though. Why don’t you two put some clothes on and then we’ll talk about it?”

 

Dean could see the split-second hesitation where Ben considered rejecting the request, but his son eventually nodded. “Yeah. I’ll take care of it, Dad.”

 

“Thank you, son.”

 

Joe rose from the table. “I should be on my way. I’ll bring Henry’s things inside, and then I have to head over to the next county.”

 

Dean nodded. Joe worked hard, preaching sermons several times per week, visiting the sick and chivvying everyone else into giving food and whatever else they had to spare to the poor.

 

But Pastor Joe was a bachelor, with no one to help him take care of a boy, and Dean knew how much he owed to Cas for sticking around. There were things that they could do for their kids that Joe would never be able to do for Henry on his own, and Dean could appreciate the sort of faith that Joe was demonstrating in them.

 

“Take care of yourself, Pastor,” Dean said.

 

Joe smiled. “You all do the same. Let Henry know that I said goodbye, will you?”

 

Dean didn’t try to argue, and Cas maintained his silence as well, even though Dean could hear him thinking all the way out to the front door while he followed Joe, and then all the way back to the kitchen as well.

 

“You’re thinking pretty hard for this early in the morning,” Dean commented after he’d waved the pastor off and returned to the kitchen.

 

Cas shook his head. “There are times when I wonder anew at the situation we’ve found ourselves in. This is—not where I thought I would be.”

 

“And being here, is it a good thing?” Dean asked.

 

Cas smiled. “I think you know the answer to that question.”

 

“Tell me anyway,” Dean urged.

 

Cas raised his eyebrows. “I could ask you the same question, you know.”

 

“You know me better than that,” Dean replied. “This is pretty much all I ever wanted, minus…” He trailed off, thinking about Sam, and how much he still missed his brother.

 

Cas gave him a knowing look. “You still miss Sam.”

 

“I told you, we aren’t going to talk about him, not now, not ever.” Dean shoved it aside. “Cas—”

 

“What I wanted was your happiness.”

 

“You didn’t want anything for yourself?”

 

“I wanted you,” Cas replied simply.

 

Dean understood what Cas meant by being struck by what they had all over again. The things Cas said sometimes, so direct, with no dissembling, no fear. If not for Sam’s absence, Dean thought his life would be perfect.

 

Dean was saved from having to formulate a response when Ben entered the kitchen with Mary in tow. “Are you two hungry?” Dean asked. “I can make breakfast.”

 

“Eggs?” Ben asked.

 

“Sure thing. Henry’s outside. Say hello and let him know we’ll be eating soon,” Dean replied.

 

He turned to watch as Ben and Mary went outside, facing Henry, who sat on the tire swing, idly pushing off the ground in a slow, rhythmic motion. “You think they’ll be okay with this?”

 

“They’re very open-minded, and they’re both willing to help.” Cas joined him by the sink. “I think they’ll be fine.”

 

“And us?”

 

“We’ll be fine, too.” Cas slid an arm around Dean’s waist, and Dean leaned into Cas’ warm body. Moments like these were too few and far between not to enjoy. He would have to start breakfast soon, but he could take a moment now.

 

~~~~~

 

Dean woke with a start, looking around for Cas anxiously in the early morning light. “Cas!”

 

“I’m here, Dean. Go back to sleep.” A warm hand pressed Dean back into the mattress, but Dean pushed himself back up. “Dean—”

 

“I need to check on them.”

 

Cas sighed. “I just did. Go back to sleep.”

 

Dean lay back down, blinking eyes gritty from lack of sleep. He ran a hand over his thick stubble. There hadn’t been time to shave over the past few days—no time to do anything but change sheets and sponge down feverish children.

 

“Fevers?”

 

“Mary’s has broken,” Cas assured him. “She’ll be fine. Ben and Henry are both still ill, but I think it’s only a matter of time. You’ll be sick next if you don’t get some sleep.”

 

Dean threw a hand up over his eyes. “How about you?”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“It’s still possible for you to get sick, Cas,” Dean said irritably. “You should be asleep, too.”

 

Cas smiled. “I slept all night, remember? It’s your turn.”

 

Dean closed his eyes, unable to resist. “Okay. Wake me if you need me.”

 

“Of course, Dean.”

 

“You’re just saying that,” Dean mumbled, even as he slid down into sleep.

 

When he woke again, the sun slanting into the room told him that it was mid-afternoon. He’d slept a lot longer than he’d meant to, and Cas was nowhere to be seen.

 

Dean rose and went into the bathroom, rubbing the scruff on his face. He hadn’t had time to shave in the last few days, and he didn’t care to take the time now. Turning his head, Dean frowned as he ran fingers down the sprinkling of white near his right temple.

 

He was getting old—going gray and creaking when he moved. Cas—whose body, at least, was a few years older than Dean’s—looked younger and moved like a younger man. But then, Jimmy Novak hadn’t been a hunter.

 

Dean moved down the hall, peeking into the boys’ room, and smiling when he saw them both asleep on their bunk beds, flushed with sleep, and their skin no warmer than it ought to be. Mary slept in her room, and when Dean pressed the back of his hand to her forehead, he was relieved to find her skin cool to the touch as well.

 

From there, he stumbled downstairs, rubbing at his still-sore eyes, and was somehow unsurprised to find Cas in the kitchen, shirtless and barefoot, stirring something in a pot.

 

“Hey. What’s that?”

 

“Chicken noodle soup,” Cas replied without turning around. “I’ve been told it’s good for the sick.”

 

Dean smiled and sat down at the table. “Who told you that?”

 

“Maryanne. She was here earlier.” Cas turned to look at him. “She was worried about you.”

 

“I’m fine,” Dean assured him, then began to cough, giving lie to his reassurance. “Really,” he managed around a ticklish throat.

 

Cas shook his head and put a glass of water in front of Dean. “You’re going to end up with the same virus the children had.”

 

“Probably,” Dean agreed, taking a deep draught. “Part of being human.”

 

Cas shook his head. “Maryanne brought some preserves, and a few jars of vegetables, as well as some canned peaches.”

 

“Maryanne is too good to us,” Dean replied.

 

Cas sat down across from him. “We’re her family.”

 

“She’s a good woman.”

 

“The best.” Cas drank from his own glass of water. “She was sorry to have missed you.”

 

Dean shook his head. “I can’t believe I slept that long.”

 

“You haven’t slept the whole night through in several days, Dean,” Cas replied, his tone sharp. “You needed it.”

 

“Clearly.” Dean frowned. “What’s wrong, Cas?”

 

Cas shook his head, rising from his seat. “Nothing.”

 

“It’s not nothing,” Dean objected. “You’re pissed about something.”

 

“I don’t like seeing you run yourself ragged,” Cas replied, his back to Dean as he went back to the pot of soup. “I don’t like it when you refuse to take care of yourself.”

 

Dean sighed. This wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation, but it was probably the first time Dean knew Cas was right. “I’m sorry.”

 

“You won’t do the children any good if you push yourself so hard, you falter,” Cas insisted.

 

“I said you were right, didn’t I?” Dean asked. “And I slept. Soon as the soup is done, I’ll eat, too. I’m going to be fine.”

 

Cas put the spoon down, coming around the table to rest his hands on Dean’s shoulders, beginning to massage tight, sore muscles. “Thank you.”

 

“Sometimes I’m going to have to push myself,” Dean warned him. “Sometimes, there won’t be another choice.”

 

“I know that.” Cas sighed, digging into one particularly tense knot. “I do know that. I just—wish it didn’t happen quite so often.”

 

“It doesn’t happen nearly as much now as it used to,” Dean pointed out, feeling the crooked smile pulling at his lips. “That’s one thing you can say for the quiet life.”

 

Cas squeezed Dean’s shoulders in silent reassurance, and Dean knew they wouldn’t fight this time. Their fights tended to be short-lived; Dean sometimes thought that they’d argued themselves out before they’d brought an end to Lucifer. Before they’d faced near-starvation, and before they’d had a couple of kids to bring through alive.

 

Most problems seemed pretty small after that.

 

Cas placed his palm on Dean’s forehead and sighed. “You feel warm.”

 

“Is that your way of saying you think I’m hot?” Dean joked weakly.

 

Cas bent to press his lips to Dean’s forehead. “Always.”

 

“Even though I’m going gray?”

 

Cas stroked Dean’s face, running a hand over the sprinkling of silver. “You look quite distinguished, Dean.”

 

Dean raised his eyebrows. “So, you think I should keep it?”

 

In response, Cas lowered his head, his lips cool and slightly chapped, and Dean drank him in.

 

This was the only relationship Dean had ever had—the longest he’d been with anyone, other than family. They’d never even had a date—not unless he counted that brothel where he’d tried to get Cas laid for the first time.

 

Dean sometimes wondered if he shouldn’t have done the deed himself, but he didn’t mind how things had turned out. He didn’t have a lot of regrets where Cas was concerned, and he was grateful for that.

 

“We should go out sometime,” Dean said when Cas finally pulled back.

 

Cas frowned. “Go where?”

 

“I don’t know, on a date.” Dean let out a laugh, although it didn’t have much in the way of humor. “I know there isn’t much around here, but—”

 

Cas shook his head, cutting Dean off. “No, I think I know of a place.”

 

“Seriously?”

 

“I watched enough television to know what a ‘date’ is, Dean,” Cas replied, his tone full of humor and patience and a sort of understanding that could only come from years of being together.

 

Dean smiled. “Maybe after the kids are better, then,” he finally said. “We’ll pack them off to Maryanne’s for a night. Might be kind of nice to have the place to ourselves.”

 

Cas’ face literally lit up at that, and the real pleasure in his smile took Dean by surprise. “I’d like that.”

 

“Yeah, me too.”

 

Dean’s next words were cut off by the sound of footsteps, and Mary came into the kitchen and headed immediately for Dean, draping herself across him without waiting for an invitation.

 

“How are you feeling, kiddo?” Dean asked softly.

 

She shrugged, not removing her hands from where they clung to the back of his t-shirt, and Dean shifted her weight to a more comfortable position. “Cas is making chicken noodle soup,” he informed her in a whisper. “Think you could eat something?”

 

She nodded against his neck, and Dean shared a smile with Cas, unaccountably warmed by the idea of a date with his—well, whatever Cas was to him. A partner, maybe. He couldn’t think of another way to describe it.

 

He didn’t need one, come to think of it.

 

~~~~~

 

“Oh, hell. I feel like shit,” Dean groaned.

 

“If it makes you feel any better, you look like shit, too,” Cas replied, handing Dean a glass of water. “Howl took the kids for the day. He said he’d put them to work.”

 

“Great.” Dean drained the glass of water and then threw an arm over his eyes. “How are you feeling?”

 

Cas ran a hand over Dean’s hair. “I can’t breathe very well, but I’m not nearly as sick as you are.”

 

“Bastard.”

 

“Technically, I didn’t have a mother.”

 

“Seriously, Cas, you’re a bastard.”

 

Cas gave a little huff of laughter. “Sorry.”

 

“No, you’re not.”

 

“No, I’m not,” Cas agreed, and Dean moved his arm just enough to see Cas’ grin. “You do look like shit, and I’d rather one of us be able to take care of things around here.”

 

Dean forced himself to sit up. “I’m sorry, Cas. You got stuck—”

 

“Shut up,” Cas said, although the words held no heat. “You know I don’t mind taking care of you.”

 

“I know, but you’ve had to do too much of that already, Cas. I know how much—”

 

“Shut up, Dean.” Cas kissed him silent. “I promise, the next time I’m sick, I’ll lie around and force you to wait on me hand and foot.”

 

Dean smiled slowly. “Sounds fair. You got a minute?”

 

“For you, always.” Cas stretched out next to him, easing Dean’s aching body so that he was half-draped over Cas. Quiet moments like this, Dean couldn’t quite believe what he had, and what he’d given up didn’t seem quite so huge.

 

“Think I’ll keep the beard,” Dean murmured into Cas’ worn, brown t-shirt. “Think I’m due for a change.”

 

“I like it,” Cas said quietly, “if that makes any difference.”

 

Dean smoothed his hand down the plane of Cas’ flat abdomen. “It makes a difference.”

 

Then he closed his eyes and slid back into sleep, basking in the warmth of Cas’ body and the sunlight that painted the room gold.


	13. Rural South Dakota, Mid-Summer 2016

Sam watched the flames of the bonfire flare, the crackle and pop of burning logs warring with the sound of the kids playing a game of night tag in the clearing. Sam had followed Cas and Ben out to a place near the creek where the trees opened up to wide sky.

 

This was where they did most of their fishing, Cas had told him as they’d dug out the sod in a wide circle, wanting to prevent any sparks from catching. Sam didn’t know much about fishing, but he thought this would probably be a good spot, where the creek bent back, so the water ran slow and deepened.

 

Sam was full on sausages and potatoes roasted in their jackets in the hot ashes, and now on ice cream and cake. He let the warmth from the fire wash over him, and glanced at Cas and Dean out of the corner of his eye. They were sitting off to the side, dimly lit by the flames, heads bent close together.

 

He couldn’t quite get over how good they were together, how comfortable Dean was with Cas, how comfortable Cas seemed inside his own skin in comparison to the way he’d been when Sam had first met him. At the moment, Sam didn’t know whether to be grateful that there had been someone who had Dean’s back for the last decade, or angry that it had been Cas.

 

He recognized the anger, though, and pushed it aside. Sam had been angry his entire life, but in this case, he couldn’t blame anyone but himself.

 

“Hey.” Ben plopped down next to Sam, interrupting the cycle of self-recrimination before it had a chance to begin. “What’s up?”

 

“Just watching the fire.”

 

Ben grinned at him. “Isn’t it awesome? Dad and Cas do it every couple of months as long as it’s warm enough.”

 

“And when it’s not warm enough?”

 

“We find other stuff to do,” Ben replied. “We do a lot of our schoolwork in the winter, since there’s not much to do outside.”

 

They both looked away, momentarily distracted by the puppy barking wildly, chasing Henry as he chased a laughing Casey. “What did you guys decide to name the dog?”

 

Ben grinned. “Cora wants to name her Princess, which Henry vetoed. He’s campaigning hard for Laura, although God knows why.”

 

“Not Laura,” Sam blurted out before he could think better of it. “I just—not that name.”

 

Ben shot him a look, his forehead creased with concern. “Yeah, okay. I wanted to name her Scout, anyway.”

 

“_To Kill a Mockingbird_?” Sam questioned.

 

“That’s right. Plus, she’s a hunting dog. That’s what she’s supposed to do, right?”

 

Sam was impressed that Ben had read the book. “What are the schools like out here?”

 

Ben snorted. “Non-existent. Julia helps, and Cas has a lot of Bobby’s old books. The town library has a lot of the classics, but we don’t get new books very often.”

 

“I’ve got a few in my car,” Sam offered. “You could go through, see if anything strikes your interest.”

 

Ben grinned. “Mary would be thrilled. She and Henry like to read a lot, anytime they’ve got the time. I’ll read what Cas asks me to, but that’s about it. Dad keeps telling me that Mom would want me to get my education—what I can, anyway.”

 

“He’s probably right,” Sam replied.

 

“You knew her?”

 

“Briefly.” Sam swallowed. “She was a good woman.”

 

Ben nodded. “She really was.”

 

Mary appeared next to Ben, shaking his shoulder and pointing toward the creek, her hands beginning to fly as soon as she had his attention.

 

“Swimming?” Ben asked with a grin.

 

She nodded, her hands going to the waist of her jeans. Sam glanced away, uncomfortable watching her strip, even though the pair of underwear she wore underneath were more modest than some of the bikinis Sam had seen girls wear.

 

Sam realized that the other kids were already shucking out of their clothing, stripping down to underwear with a lack of modesty that spoke of habit and comfort.

 

Casey hesitated, waiting until all of the other kids were in the creek, before she dropped her jeans and waded in wearing just her oversized t-shirt.

 

“Casey, you know how to swim?” Dean called out.

 

She gave an eloquent shrug in the dim light afforded by the half-moon and the bonfire. “Sort of.”

 

“Stay right there,” Dean called. He stripped down to his boxer-briefs and waded in after her. “Okay, first lesson is how to float.”

 

Sam remembered that first lesson—Dean had been the one to teach him, how to move his legs and arms together, how to not drown when in deep water.

 

“Sammy!” Dean called out. “Get down here!”

 

Sam hesitated, but then muttered, “What the hell?”

 

The water was cold; there was enough shade overhanging the bend in the creek to prevent the sun from heating it too much. Cora was splashing in the shallows, kicking water at Ryan, who laughed and dodged. Casey was trying to float, Dean holding her up and coaching her into relaxing.

 

Cas swept in, grabbing Cora under his arm and swinging her around as she shrieked happily while Ben and Mary waded out into the deeper water.

 

For a moment, Sam stood on the bank, just watching, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do. He’d forgotten how to play what seemed like a hundred years ago now, and he had no idea how to begin.

 

“Sam, come on!” Ben shouted. “Come on!”

 

Sam shrugged and strode in, letting Ben duck him, because he knew it would thrill the boy. Mary joined Ben, hanging off of Sam’s left arm, her mouth opened in silent howls of laughter. Henry jumped in, and Sam went down again under a tangle of limbs.

 

For a moment—for one glorious, incandescent moment—Sam forgot everything he’d ever done. Everything he’d had to do in order to survive. It all washed away under cool, muddy water, and Sam rose up, wrestling Ben under, releasing him under the onslaught of Henry and Mary, laughing and gasping, and trying not to swallow water.

 

Sam tossed Henry up, into the air, sending him splashing into the water ten feet away. Henry went down in a flail of coltish limbs and happy shouts.

 

“Sam!”

 

Sam looked up and saw Cas swinging Cora, and he heard her high-pitched giggles. He opened his arms and watched as Cas swung her up and around, sending her small body hurtling toward him. She stretched out her arms, a wide smile on her face, and Sam plucked her out of the air and swung her around as she laughed madly.

 

And for one brilliant moment, Sam felt as though he was home.

 

~~~~~

 

Dean didn’t drive the Impala all that often these days—he loved her too much to risk her on the roads riddled with potholes. Plus, she used more gas than they usually had, when the Willys would carry more kids and supplies.

 

Still, Dean tried to spend time every week making sure she didn’t feel too neglected.

 

Leaning over the hood, Dean rubbed wax over the paint. She might not get out much, but Dean had every intention of keeping her protected.

 

“I didn’t know you still had it.”

 

Dean didn’t look up. “What? You think I’d get rid of her?”

 

“No, I just…” Sam stepped into the barn, leaning up against the wall on the other side of the car. “I hadn’t really seen it.”

 

“I take care of her,” Dean replied. “I don’t trust the roads around here.”

 

Sam snorted. “Yeah, they’re pretty bad.”

 

“Ben learned to drive in this car,” Dean said. “I figured it was tradition.”

 

“How was he the first time?”

 

“I didn’t yell at him nearly as much as Dad yelled at you.” Dean grinned at the memory. “Just before he made me teach you.”

 

Sam laughed. “In my defense, the stop sign was covered by tree branches.”

 

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Dude, you were trying to change the radio station to some top 40 crap.”

 

“It’s not crap.”

 

“That’s what you think.” Dean smirked over the old argument. “You’re never gonna win that one, Sam.”

 

“I know.”

 

The silence hung between them, and Dean focused on the smell of wax, the way the light fell across the black paint on the hood of the Impala, the pleasant ache in his muscles that came from the morning’s chores.

 

Sam broke the silence first, clearing his throat. “Howl said he could offer me a job.”

 

“Howl’s a good man,” Dean replied evenly. “And he’d be a fair boss.”

 

“What exactly does he do?” Sam asked.

 

“Mostly, he raises cattle and sheep, plus a few alpaca.” Dean glanced up. “He breeds hunting dogs, too, but you knew that.”

 

Sam nodded, and Dean could read unhappiness in the twist of his mouth and the tense set of his shoulders. He found it strange that he had no idea what Sam had been doing for the better part of the last decade, had no idea who his brother even _was_ these days—and yet he could still read Sam like a book.

 

“Do you mind?” Sam finally asked.

 

Dean didn’t bother to pretend he didn’t understand. “Of course not.”

 

“I just—I don’t want to step on any toes here,” Sam said awkwardly.

 

Dean sighed. “We already had this conversation, Sam. You’re family, and family is always welcome.”

 

“Okay. If you don’t mind, I think I might walk down to Howl’s.”

 

“Take one of the bikes,” Dean suggested. “Howl’s likely to put you to work immediately, and you’ll be too tired to walk back.”

 

“I’ll be fine,” Sam bristled. “I can take care of myself.”

 

“Fine. Don’t take the bike. I was just trying to be nice. Jesus, Sam.”

 

Dean saw Sam squinting at him as though trying to gauge Dean’s sincerity, as though he suspected Dean was trying to order him around

 

Old patterns, Dean thought. Old patterns that didn’t fit who they were now.

 

“Yeah. Sorry.” Sam turned on his heel and stalked out of the barn, leaving Dean to stare after him, wondering whether he’d fucked this up.

 

Dean ran a hand over his beard, suddenly bone-weary. He slumped against the hood of the Impala, pressing a hand against the cool metal. Of all of them, Dean thought, the Impala was the only one to come through the apocalypse unscathed.

 

“Dad?”

 

Ben’s voice broke through Dean’s thoughts. “Yeah, son?”

 

“You okay?”

 

“Just tired.” Dean stood up straight. “What’s up?”

 

“Sam just took off on one of the bikes,” Ben replied. “He didn’t stop.”

 

“He’s going to see Howl about a job.” Dean began putting the wax and soft cloths away. “You want to take her out for a spin?”

 

Ben smiled, but his expression held a hint of reserve. “Yeah, okay. Are you sure everything is all right?”

 

“Just fine,” Dean assured him, fishing the keys out from under the driver’s side mat and tossing them towards Ben. “Is Cas inside?”

 

“Henry, Casey, and Ryan are reading, Cora’s down for a nap, and Mary’s doing some mending.” Ben slid behind the wheel. “Cas is inside, keeping an eye on things. We should be good to go.”

 

Dean slid the barn door back, then climbed into the passenger side. “All right, son. Let’s make sure she’s still in shape.”

 

~~~~~

 

Sam cursed himself as soon as he got out on the road. Dean _had_ been offering, and he was better acquainted with the roads and the distance to Howl’s. Now that Sam was halfway in between the two, he realized that Dean had been right. Walking would have been possible, but he still hadn’t quite recovered all of his strength after Los Angeles.

 

Dean was looking out for him, just like he always had, and Sam had to admit—if only to himself—that it had been far too long since anyone had had his back.

 

The trip to Howl’s took a fraction of the time on the bike, and it left plenty of daylight—something else Dean had probably considered.

 

Howl came out of a nearby barn to greet Sam, wiping dirty hands on a red rag that he tucked into the back pocket of his jeans. His tanned, weathered face creased as he smiled a welcome. “Sam. Good to see you.”

 

“Thought I’d take you up on your offer,” Sam said, putting down the kickstand and parking the bike. “I’d like to contribute.”

 

“And that’s a credit to you,” Howl replied. “Come on, I’ll show you around the place, and you can help me sling some bales of hay, if you don’t mind starting right away.”

 

“Dean said you might.” Sam followed Howl as he walked around the barn to the corral.

 

“I keep the alpacas and a couple of horses here.” Howl leaned against the split rail fence. “The alpacas are good for wool, and I got them cheap from someone who was leaving the area and wanted to get rid of them.”

 

Sam watched the four alpacas as they grazed, stretching out their necks and chewing slowly, their long faces placid. Both horses had turned to look at them as they approached, and they began trotting over, nosing Howl’s shoulder and arm when they stopped in front of him.

 

“They’re good animals, and sometimes I’ll ride Buck here into town to save on the gas.” Howl patted the neck of the dapple-gray, and nodded towards chestnut gelding. “Roper there would probably be big enough to hold you if you’re interested. Know how to ride?”

 

“Never had the chance to learn,” Sam replied.

 

Howl smiled. “Not too much of a surprise there. You’ve spent most of your life in cities, haven’t you?”

 

“Or on the road,” Sam replied. “But yeah.”

 

Howl smiled. “We’ll get you up to speed.”

 

Sam followed him around the farm and tried not to let his ignorance show too much. Howl hadn’t been wrong; Sam was an urbanite, and he felt like a fish out of water here.

 

“Thought I’d leave this place to my kids,” Howl said conversationally as they tossed hay bales into the back of an ancient pickup. “They left for the city years ago, though.”

 

Sam had heard far too many stories like that, but he felt compelled to ask, “Have you heard from them since?”

 

“Sure,” Howl replied. “My son is a doctor, and there are still jobs for folks like that. Told him he could come back here, but not everybody likes living in the middle of nowhere. My daughter, though, I haven’t heard from her in a long time. She was in New York last time I got a letter from her, but it’s been years.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“We all lost family in that mess, boy,” Howl replied without heat. He climbed behind the wheel, and Sam slid into the passenger seat. “Speaking of family, your brother has been a real godsend.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“He and Cas are good at fixing things—cars, people, even situations. I called Bobby for help when we had that little problem with the lamia. He knew Shep—he’s the one who owned the house Dean’s in now—and Bobby sent Dean and Cas out here to help us deal with it.” Howl glanced over at him. “But you know all this.”

 

Sam swallowed. “No, I don’t. Please.”

 

Howl nodded. “They came in, killed the thing that was going after what few kids we had, and settled in. And then they kept fixing things.”

 

“I never knew,” Sam said quietly. “I—is there—” He stopped, trying to gather his thoughts, not wanting to give too much away. Howl knew so much about Dean, about Cas, about the last few years of their lives. He could ask for information, maybe without Dean knowing, and he could get a glimpse inside Dean’s life.

 

Maybe he could figure out where he fit in all of this.

 

“Let me tell you about the first time your brother got on a horse,” Howl said, as though he’d read Sam’s mind.

 

Sam leaned back in the passenger seat, and listened, thirsty for knowledge and grateful that someone was willing to slake that thirst.


	14. Cicero, Indiana, Early Spring 2010

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note: Because I began writing this story long before the middle/end of season 5, there are certain things that are non-canon compliant.

The more distance Dean placed between him and Sam, the worse he felt. Even if they’d agreed to meet up later, that was no guarantee they would—and no guarantee Dean had made the right decision.

 

After twenty-four hours on the road, they were closer to Cicero, but not nearly close enough for Dean’s peace of mind. Gas was scarce, and the trip had been harder to make than Dean had originally anticipated. The unnatural storms that had passed through the eastern states recently had caused trees and power lines to fall across the roads, and there weren’t enough people around to clear them.

 

Dean had to admit that he was exhausted from the trip; they were still eight hours out, and he needed to get some sleep. “I’m going to teach you how to drive,” he said wearily, pulling over to the side of the road. The darkness closed around them when he turned off the headlights; there was only the waning moon and stars above them for light.

 

Castiel gave him a curious look. “Excuse me?”

 

“When we get Ben and Lisa,” Dean explained, leaning his head back against the seat wearily. “I’m going to teach you how to drive. Without Sam here, there’s no one else to take a turn, and I need to sleep.”

 

“So sleep,” Castiel replied. “I’ll keep watch.”

 

Dean closed his eyes and was asleep almost immediately, which was a testament to just how tired he was, and he didn’t stir until the sun was well over the horizon. Castiel had relaxed just slightly into the passenger seat, but he still seemed alert in spite of the dark circles under his eyes when Dean woke the next morning.

 

“Cas?”

 

“I’m here, Dean.”

 

The angel’s voice was deep and immediately reassuring. There was a part of Dean that couldn’t quite believe how easy it was to trust that Cas would have his back, that he would stay by Dean’s side, in spite of all the shit going down.

 

His brain shied away from the idea that he could trust Cas to stay when he couldn’t trust Sam. His brother had his own priorities, and he was looking for redemption in his own way. Dean understood that, or he was trying to.

 

Dean turned to rummage in the backseat, looking for anything to eat. He was starving; decent food was becoming far too difficult to find.

 

“There are a few bags of chips back there,” Cas offered. “And I believe beef jerky.”

 

“How do you know that?” Dean asked, mystified by how Castiel always seemed to know things that Dean had managed to forget.

 

“You bought five bags of chips and seven packages of beef jerky at the last place we stopped,” Castiel replied, as though it ought to be obvious—and maybe it should be. “I remember that you ate—”

 

“No, it’s cool,” Dean assured him, locating a package of jerky and ripping it open with his teeth. “Do you want some?”

 

“I don’t need to eat the way that you do.” Cas looked at him with a steady blue gaze that seemed to promise things Dean couldn’t understand. Not much had changed since Dean had first met him in that abandoned barn.

 

Dean spoke through a mouthful of jerky, peering out the window at the blue sky above them. At least it looked like it was going to be a clear day. “No, but you are going to need to eat. Don’t be a martyr, Cas.”

 

“I won’t.” Cas sounded almost offended. “But if you require food more than I do, then it only makes sense that you be the one to eat what we have, at least until we’re certain we can obtain more.”

 

Castiel’s words reminded Dean of how much he’d always taken for granted. He’d always believed that _other_ people did that—that other people didn’t know what waited for them in the darkness. That they passed through life oblivious to evil, and so they didn’t understand what he did for a living, or why he did it.

 

It turned out that Dean had made some assumptions of his own, like there would always be a diner or a McDonald’s somewhere, that he could always find a cup of coffee, even if it wasn’t much more than sludge.

 

Dean had wanted to believe that no matter what else happened in the middle of this crazy apocalypse, he would have Sam by his side.

 

Funny how things turned out.

 

With a deep breath, Dean twisted the key in the ignition, listening to the comforting purr of the Impala’s engine. “Might as well start now.”

 

“Start what now?” Cas asked.

 

“Driving lessons. Just watch for now, but later, I’ll run you through it if we can find a clear area.” Dean tapped his keys. “You saw how I started it, right?”

 

“Of course.” Amusement lit Cas’ face ever so subtly. “I’ve been watching for a long time now, Dean.” He reached out and touched the gearshift, his hand brushing over Dean’s. “This moves the car from ‘park’ to ‘drive.’ The pedal on the right is for acceleration, and the one on the left is for braking.”

 

Dean shook his head. “I should have known you were watching so close. Okay, smart guy. Which lever do you use to signal?”

 

“The left,” Castiel replied promptly.

 

Dean chuckled. “Yeah. Maybe this will be easier than I thought.”

 

~~~~~

 

The last part of the trip took about as long as Dean had hoped; eight hours later, Dean steered the Impala down the deserted streets of Cicero, Indiana, glancing around apprehensively. The sun was just beginning its descent, and Dean couldn’t help but think that the fading light just made the town look spookier. “Cas?”

 

“There’s been a lot of demon activity here.” Cas’ voice betrayed his anxiety. “And—I believe War has been here.”

 

“Shit.” Dean remembered the last time he’d run into War; it hadn’t been pretty. “What about now?”

 

Cas shook his head. “I don’t know, Dean, but I don’t like it. It’s—too quiet.”

 

Dean gritted his teeth and turned down Lisa’s street. “We’re almost there. We’ll get Ben and Lisa, and get out of here.”

 

Cas nodded, but Dean could see worry in the tilt of his head and set of his jaw. Dean wasn’t sure what it said that he could read Cas like a book.

 

As soon as they pulled up in front of Lisa’s house, Dean reached into the backseat for the shotgun, handing it to Cas. “You got it?”

 

Cas climbed out of the car, his trench coat fluttering around his heels, and he checked the chamber, just as Dean had taught him. “Yes, Dean.”

 

Dean pulled out his handgun, checked the clip, and released the safety. “Good.”

 

He knocked on the front door loudly, and when he didn’t get an answer, Dean tried the doorknob. The door swung open easily, and Dean stepped through, the barrel of his gun pointed at the ground. “Hello? Lisa? Ben? It’s Dean.”

 

Dean motioned Cas to follow him and went through the hallway. He remembered the layout of the house from the last time he’d been there, not perfectly but well enough to find his way around. “Lisa? Ben? You here?”

 

Fear coiled in Dean’s stomach, and he wondered if he was going to be too late. “Dean,” Cas whispered. “Is there a lower level?”

 

Dean frowned, then headed for the kitchen, seeing the door that led to the basement. “Stay here and cover me.”

 

Castiel didn’t look happy about it, but he nodded, turning his back to the stairs and facing out, covering their exit.

 

Dean made his way down the wooden stairs carefully listening to the creak of unfinished wood under his boots. The only light came from the entrance above him, and the last rays of sunlight that came through one of the basement windows. It was just enough to see by—and as Dean hit the last three stairs, he could see the rest of the unfinished room.

 

When he saw what waited for him, Dean leaped the last steps and strode over to the corner where a bloody figure lay on a mattress. “Oh, God, no,” he hissed.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean caught movement, and he turned to see Ben huddled in a corner, as far away from the body as he could get.

 

Dean already knew that Lisa was dead. No one could survive as much blood loss as she clearly had suffered; blood covered her shirt and had soaked through the waist of her jeans, and Dean could see that it had pooled around her on the mattress. By the rusty color, she’d been there for a while, and he swallowed as he approached Ben carefully, tucking his gun in the back of his jeans. He would have to trust Cas to cover them.

 

“Ben? It’s me, Dean. You remember me, don’t you?”

 

Ben stared at him, dark eyes unseeing. His skin was pale and clammy from shock, but Dean couldn’t see any sign of injury. Dean reached out, putting a gentle hand around Ben’s wrist, feeling the boy’s racing pulse. “Hey, it’s okay. I’ve got you now.”

 

“Mom said you were coming. She said you’d take care of me.” Ben’s voice was hollow, uncertain. “She said you were my real dad.”

 

“That’s right,” Dean agreed. “All that’s true. We’re going to get out of here. You ready to go?”

 

“Mom—” Ben glanced towards Lisa’s lifeless body, flinching as though expecting a blow. “Mom tried to wait for you. I was hungry.”

 

Dean could see where this was going. “This isn’t your fault.”

 

“I was hungry, and she tried to get food, and when she came back…” Ben trailed off, and Dean decided that he couldn’t wait any longer. He pulled Ben into his arms. The boy slowly put his arms around Dean’s neck, and Dean lifted him easily.

 

“Come on,” Dean murmured. He carried Ben up the stairs to find Castiel waiting for him, tension clear in every line of his body. “Cas, can you take him? Get what we can use from the house, and put it in the car. I need to take care of Lisa.”

 

Castiel regarded Ben warily, and Dean realized that Cas had no idea how to deal with a child. Cas’ eyes met Dean’s, and Dean could see the resolve form. “Of course, Dean.”

 

Dean set Ben on his feet, and Castiel knelt in front of the boy. “Hello, Ben.”

 

Ben straightened. “Hi.”

 

“Ben, this is my buddy, Cas. Cas, this is my son, Ben.” The words sounded strange coming out of his mouth, but he felt a swell of pride. He’d wanted Ben to be his son two years ago; that much hadn’t changed.

 

Ben held out a trembling hand for Cas to shake, and the angel took it after a moment. They shook hands solemnly, and Dean met Cas’ eyes, hoping that his message would be understood.

 

Cas rose to his feet. “Come on, Ben. Let’s gather your things.”

 

Dean watched as Cas led the boy up the stairs, wanting to be sure that Ben was out of the way before he retrieved Lisa’s body.

 

Lisa didn’t seem to weigh enough in Dean’s arms when he picked her up. Her head drooped over his arm, and Dean could smell the beginnings of decay. He carried her upstairs and into the backyard, laying down the body before going back inside and looking around for something he could use as a shroud.

 

Spotting the curtains in the living room, Dean pulled them down. The best accelerant he could find in the kitchen was cooking oil, as well as matches, and Dean figured that was the best he was going to do.

 

Dean found a shovel in the garage, and he quickly cut out a six by nine foot section of sod, making sure that the fire wouldn’t spread too far. He found the coal that Lisa had apparently purchased for the grill and gave thanks that she bought in bulk.

 

Within minutes, Dean had laid out a bed of coals and had soaked them and the body in oil. A flick of the match, and her body was alight, burning hotly. Dean paused, watching the fire for a moment, passing his hands over dry eyes. He’d lost too many people to shed any tears over Lisa.

 

Too many dead bodies had piled up, too many people hurt or killed—and Dean had been the one to start it all.

 

Dean knew it was time to finish it.

 

Once he was certain that Lisa’s body would continue burning, Dean turned back to the house, finding Cas and Ben waiting for him in the entranceway. “We ready to go?”

 

Castiel nodded. “We’re ready, Dean. The car is loaded.”

 

“Good.” Dean pushed them out the door, watching Ben carefully as he climbed into the backseat. He hadn’t planned for this; Lisa was supposed to be here, taking care of her son. Their son. Whatever.

 

“You okay, Ben?” Dean asked once he was in the driver’s seat.

 

Ben nodded silently, staring out the window.

 

“You sure?” Dean pressed.

 

“I’m sure.” Ben turned to meet Dean’s eyes. “Did you take care of Mom?”

 

“Yeah, I got her, buddy,” Dean promised. “We’re going to be okay.”

 

“Where are we going?” Ben asked.

 

Dean grimaced. “We’re going to visit a friend right now. You’ll be safe with him while we take care of the real problem.”

 

“What’s the real problem?” Ben inquired.

 

Dean coughed. “The devil. Don’t worry about it.”

 

Ben fell back into silence, and Dean glanced over at Cas, whose expression was grave. If Dean didn’t know any better, he would have thought that Castiel grieved over Lisa as much as he did.

 

~~~~~

 

“I want to stop him.”

 

Cas didn’t pretend not to know what Dean meant. They were sitting around a campfire, a hundred miles outside of Cicero, headed towards Bobby’s. Ben was asleep, stretched out in the backseat of the Impala, and Dean couldn’t help glancing back over his shoulder every so often.

 

They’d found a town about twenty-five miles back and had found food enough for the next few days, and enough gas to get them to Chicago. Dean hoped that supplies wouldn’t be quite as scarce in the bigger city, although he wasn’t optimistic.

 

“What are you thinking, Dean?” Cas asked quietly.

 

“I could say yes,” Dean suggested half-heartedly. “If Michael—”

 

Castiel didn’t let him finish. “If you say yes, there will be nothing of you left.”

 

Cas surprised Dean with how fierce he sounded. “Maybe it’s worth it. If Ben’s safe, it would be. I can’t risk someone else, Cas. I’ve lost—”

 

Dean broke off, unable to articulate his losses. Lisa hadn’t been the first, nor would she be the last. He was well aware of the risks inherent in continuing on their present course, no matter what Sam might think.

 

“There may be another way,” Castiel said hesitantly. “Only an angel can kill another angel, Dean; I doubt that even the Colt would succeed in stopping Lucifer, although there is still a chance.”

 

“What are you thinking?” Dean asked urgently.

 

Castiel’s face looked eerie lit by the fire, the interplay between shadow and light making his eyes appear almost black. The rush of affection, tinged with desire that Dean felt for him came as a surprise.

 

“The sword that I have by right of my position as one of my Father’s warriors cannot be wielded by a human, but we might strike together. If we both hold the sword…”

 

Cas sounded almost hesitant, as though Dean would reject the idea out of hand. At this point, however, Dean was ready to try almost anything. To be honest, if Cas would have offered to take Dean as a vessel, Dean probably would have accepted.

 

He would give anything to end this, to end the deaths.

 

“I think I know what you mean,” Dean acknowledged. “Do you think it would work?”

 

“I don’t know,” Cas admitted. “I would have suggested it before, but…”

 

“You didn’t think we’d be able to do it,” Dean said flatly.

 

“I didn’t know. The risk was large, and the possibility for success so small, I didn’t think that it would be worth it.”

 

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “And now?”

 

Castiel didn’t reply with words, instead glancing towards the Impala, his expression grim and altogether too worried. Dean felt a need to protect Cas well up; he wanted to show Cas that life wasn’t always this grim, that there was happiness, and hope, and the possibility for peace.

 

That’s what Dean had fought for all these years. He had fought that others might have a better, more peaceful life. And now, it was time for the end game.

 

“Cas—”

 

“Whatever you decide, Dean,” Castiel began hesitantly. “I will be at your side.”

 

Dean swallowed hard, and nodded. “I think we need to try.”

 

Castiel nodded. “Then we will try, and I have no doubt that you will succeed.”

 

Dean didn’t say that he didn’t want to succeed unless Cas survived as well; he didn’t know how to put the feelings into words. Dean didn’t know how to tell Cas how much he depended on him. “How are we going to find him?” Dean asked, not recognizing his own hoarse voice.

 

Cas smiled. “I believe that he will come to us. Your death will mean something to him; if you are killed, you cannot serve as Michael’s vessel.”

 

Dean laughed grimly. “So, I’m bait?”

 

“Yes.” Castiel’s eyes seemed to search his face in the firelight. “Do you think it will work?”

 

“Hell if I know,” Dean replied. “But I guess we’ll find out.”


	15. Rural South Dakota, Late Summer 2016

Dean shook his head when he saw Ernest climbing up the ladder with a roll of insulation on his shoulder. “I told you, you don’t have to do that, Ernest.”

 

Ernest waited until he was standing in the loft, his dark skin shining in the late afternoon light. “And you weren’t the one who saved my little girl’s life?”

 

“That was just—”

 

“Neighborly?” Ernest asked with a wide grin. “And this is me being neighborly. Can I get a drink of water?”

 

Mary handed him a Mason jar full, the sides beaded with condensation.

 

“You’re a good girl,” Ernest said with a nod of thanks.

 

She beamed at him, and then went back to mudding the section of drywall that had already been hung.

 

Dean had put all of his kids to work; if they weren’t here mudding, nailing boards, or running errands, they were picking up the slack for those who were. Even Cora had been asked to run errands, carrying small containers of nails up the ladder, or fetching tools left behind.

 

More than one of the men and women who’d arrived to help had watched her scamper with indulgent smiles, and Dean couldn’t help the sense of pride he got while her curls bounced around her face, tongue sticking out of her adorably pursed lips.

 

Ryan was trying to do too much, but Howl had taken the boy under his wing, mostly keeping him out from under foot. Last Dean had seen, Cas had Henry and Casey working in the garden, pulling weeds. Ben was helping Jerry frame up the new wall in the middle of the loft that would separate his room from Mary’s.

 

Well, Ben and Sam’s room. Dean still wasn’t certain that Sam would stay, but he’d stuck around for a couple of weeks, and he seemed to be enjoying his work at Howl’s. Right now, he was dressed in long sleeves and jeans, gloves and a mask, helping Earnest lay insulation, which was probably the worst job in Dean’s opinion.

 

And Sam had volunteered, Dean thought. He was trying—they both were. No telling yet whether it would make a difference.

 

Dean took a deep draught of water and began mudding again.

 

By the time Maryanne yelled, “Dinner’s ready!” up the ladder, the insulation was in, the drywall was up, and half of it had been mudded and patched. Dean couldn’t quite believe how much had been accomplished in just a couple of days.

 

When he emerged from the barn, blinking in the late afternoon sunlight, he saw that Maryanne and Cas had been busy. Blankets were spread out over the scrub grass that made up their front yard, and food had been spread out on the tailgates of the gathered trucks. Dean could smell fried chicken, as well as the sweet scent of baked beans and the sharp smell of vinegar in the three-bean salad.

 

Maryanne was one of the best women he knew, but she was also predictable, and Dean knew her picnics like the back of his hand. Fried chicken, baked beans, potato salad, and three-bean salad, plus an assortment of pies.

 

He grinned and accepted a glass of water from Cas. “Smells good.”

 

“You’ve been working hard,” Cas replied, but the sweat staining the front and back of his t-shirt, as well as under his arms, suggested that he’d been doing the same. “How’s it going?”

 

“We’ve got most of it done,” Dean admitted. “Another couple of days with the kids mudding and painting, and we’ll have a couple more bedrooms. I don’t know how warm it’s going to be, but Ernest has some plans for a stove that should help.”

 

Cas smiled. “I would trust any of Ernest’s suggestions.”

 

“Thank you, Cas,” Ernest called out in passing. “Dean, if you want to eat tonight, I’d suggest moving quickly. I’m planning on eating my weight in food.”

 

“There’s plenty for everyone,” Maryanne said. “So you can come back for seconds after everyone has had a chance to fill their plates.”

 

Dean laughed and headed for the buffet. To his surprise, Sam seemed to be getting along with everyone. Working with Howl had eased his acceptance into Cypress Grove, and Sam was holding an animated conversation with Jerry, although Dean couldn’t hear enough to know what the topic was.

 

He found a seat under one of the ancient oak trees in the front yard, his back against the trunk, and began to chow down. Cas joined him a moment later with his own plate, although it wasn’t piled nearly as high as Dean’s. Cas had a tendency to eat less than he should; Dean often had to prod him to eat more.

 

Sometimes, Dean thought that Cas didn’t quite _get_ what it meant to be human—not that Dean minded. He still enjoyed figuring out what made Cas tick, and what he felt, what he thought, how he reacted to various stimuli.

 

It was part of what made being in a long-term relationship so interesting; Dean had never realized how fascinating it would be to dig into someone he knew so well, to uncover things he had never known before.

 

By the time he was halfway through his meal, the kids had filled up their own plates and settled themselves nearby. Dean went back for another piece of chicken, as well as second helpings of all the sides and cajoled Cas into helping him eat it.

 

As the sun went down, Dean leaned back up against the tree, Cas leaning up against him companionably. The kids were running around with sparklers left over from the Fourth of July—something that never failed to amuse Dean.

 

Money might be tight, but people were always willing to pay to blow shit up.

 

Dean had no idea when she’d shown up, but Ernest’s wife had arrived with their two kids, and Jerry’s wife with their three. They joined his brood in a game of freeze-tag, calling out to each other with good-natured teasing and pleas for assistance.

 

Ten years ago, Dean thought, they would have all been on cell phones, in front of TV sets and computers and video games. Now, the younger kids couldn’t even remember a life when that kind of technology had been readily available.

 

Sometimes, Dean felt as though that life was just a dream, and what they had now was the only thing that was real.

 

“Don’t you two look comfy,” Maryanne said, settling herself next to Dean and arranging her long skirt around her legs. “How’s the work coming?”

 

“Great. Thanks for setting this up, Maryanne.”

 

She waved off his thanks. “Don’t worry about it. That brother of yours looks like he’s settling in all right.”

 

Dean looked over to where Sam sat next to Howl on the gate of his truck, both of them drinking what he knew was probably some of Jerry’s rotgut. “He’s doing okay.”

 

“Got a job a few counties over,” Maryanne said after a minute. “I wouldn’t ask it of you, Dean, but two men have died already.”

 

“What kind of problem?” Dean asked on a sigh.

 

Maryanne shook her head. “Sounded like a wild animal, but Brian—Coburn, he’s the store manager in Union Center—tells me that the tracks are human, but the damage looks like it was done by an animal. And Union Center has a lot of good hunters.”

 

Dean watched his kids and felt Cas nudge his shoulder. “We can put the construction on hold for a few days.”

 

He sighed, feeling as though he was too old for hunting, knowing that they’d be spending a couple of days on the road, that his knee would stiffen up and make the hunt more difficult. That it was probably a werewolf, and the last one they’d had to kill had put up a fight and nearly got Cas.

 

“Sam would go with us,” Cas added.

 

Dean nodded slowly. “I’ll check with him. I’m not sure what his aim is like now. He’ll have to adjust for the lack of depth perception, and if he hasn’t been practicing, it would make more sense to leave him here with the kids.”

 

“Ben will want to come.” Cas’ observation was nothing but the truth, and Dean was already trying to figure out how to keep his son here.

 

Dean shook his head. “Not on something like this.”

 

Cas nodded. “I’ll talk to him.”

 

“No, I’ll do it,” Dean replied. “You check with Sam.” He glanced over at Maryanne, who had been silent, pretending as though she wasn’t eavesdropping. “Will you check in on the kids?”

 

“I’ll stay here,” she replied evenly. “I don’t mind, and I can get Julie to watch the store for a few days.”

 

Dean nodded. “Then we’ll plan leaving as soon as we can get everything together.”

 

~~~~~

 

Sam hadn’t used a gun on the journey from California to South Dakota; he hadn’t needed to, and he knew it would take practice to perfect his aim again after losing an eye. Knowing that he might be needed to put meat on the table had given Sam the kick in the ass he needed to suck it up and relearn how to shoot.

 

So, when Cas joined him on the screened porch to ask for his help on a hunt, Sam could honestly say, “I’ve been working on my aim. I think I’ll be okay to go.”

 

“Good.”

 

“Who else is going?” Sam asked.

 

“You, me, Dean,” Cas replied. “Ben will beg, but Dean will remain firm. He doesn’t want to risk Ben with a werewolf.”

 

“Is that what he thinks it is?”

 

“The description fits.” Cas sat down next to him on the cot. “You’re willing to go with us, then?”

 

“It’ll be just like old times,” Sam replied.

 

Cas nodded, and rose from the cot, turning to go back into the house. He paused at the doorway, turning to look over his shoulder. “The damage to Dean’s leg makes hunting difficult—whether it’s supernatural or otherwise.”

 

Sam nodded. “I know.”

 

Cas smiled. “Thank you.”

 

He didn’t sleep well that night; Sam hadn’t hunted anything supernatural—hadn’t hunted anything at all—since parting ways with Dean in Pennsylvania six years before. He still wasn’t entirely certain about his ability to hit what he was aiming for.

 

And yet, there was no question in Sam’s mind that he would go. He’d heard what Cas didn’t say—that Cas could use the help to prevent Dean from being hurt worse.

 

When he rolled out of his cot as the sun rose the next morning, Sam was gritty-eyed and weary, stumbling his way through a light breakfast and a weak cup of coffee.

 

Dean and Cas held a quiet conversation in the corner of the kitchen. Sam tried not to overhear, not wanting to listen in, when it was clear that this was a conversation between lovers.

 

He could remember talking with Jess like that, early in the morning before classes, whispered conversations steeped in intimacy, even though there was no one around to listen in.

 

Ben slid into the seat next to Sam, blinking sleepily. “Hey, Uncle Sam.”

 

“Hey.” Sam wrapped his hands around his coffee mug. “I’m glad you’re holding down the fort here.”

 

Ben snorted. “Dad won’t let me hunt anything other than food.”

 

“Good for your dad,” Sam said promptly. “Trust me, it’s better.”

 

Ben traced the grain on the table with his finger. “You can say that, but you’ve got a choice.”

 

“When you’re eighteen,” Dean said, proving that he’d been listening to something other than Cas. “When you’re eighteen, you can do anything you want, but until then, I need you here.”

 

Ben nodded reluctantly, but not sullenly, Sam noted. He sensed that it was an old argument, one Ben couldn’t hope to win, and couldn’t quite let go.

 

“Maryanne will be here later today,” Dean said. “And she’ll be staying here while we’re gone.”

 

Ben nodded. “I know. I’ll take care of it, Dad.”

 

“I know you will.” Dean pushed himself away from the counter and limped over to clap Ben on the shoulder. “We’ll see you in a few days, Ben.”

 

“Be careful.” Ben rose and hugged Dean hard, then did the same for Cas.

 

Cas smiled. “We’ll take care of him.”

 

Sam shook Ben’s hand and forced a smile. “We’ll see you soon.”

 

~~~~~

 

Dean took the Impala, because he wanted Ben to have access to the Willys, just in case he needed a vehicle, and Maryanne had said the back roads to Union Center were in decent shape. Besides, it just felt right to be driving his baby again with Sam along for the ride. Granted, Sam had taken the back seat, long legs stretched out sideways, and Cas slumped in the passenger seat next to Dean, but they were off on a hunt for the first time in a few years, and Sam was _right there_.

 

Truth be told, Dean didn’t know whether to be happy or pissed as hell that Sam was there _now_ when he hadn’t been around for so long.

 

Dean plugged in a Metallica album, surprised when Sam didn’t protest. Cas had long since stopped arguing with Dean over his musical choices.

 

They didn’t reach Union Center until mid-afternoon, and the drive seemed to go on forever. With the windows down and music blaring, Dean could almost ignore the awkward silence. If it had just been him and Cas, the quiet would have been comfortable, but having Sam there changed the dynamic.

 

Dean drove slowly, navigating around potholes where he could, carefully dodging tree limbs and other obstacles that hadn’t been cleared. It wasn’t as bad as it had been; even just a few years ago, no one could spare the labor or the money for repairs or road clearing.

 

Once they rolled into town, Dean found the local store, the one Maryanne’s friend owned, and parked in the back. He noticed that Sam appeared nervous and twitchy, as though afraid he was going to find himself on the wrong end of a gun.

 

“Easy, Sam,” Dean murmured as they approached the front door. “We’re meeting Maryanne’s friend.”

 

Sam jerked his head in what might have been a nod and very carefully kept his hands away from his pockets. Dean wondered, and not for the first time, just what Sam had done, what he’d been through.

 

He hadn’t asked yet, didn’t know that he ever would. Dean hadn’t wanted to talk about hell after Cas yanked him out, hadn’t wanted to admit to what he’d done. He got the sense that maybe Sam felt the same.

 

The store was smaller than Maryanne’s and Dean felt a bit claustrophobic. He stopped just inside, trying to orient himself.

 

“Can I help you boys?” The man who called out to him was balding, bearded, and running to fat, although his stocky frame carried the extra fifty pounds well. His eyes were cautious, and Dean saw his hand hovering over the counter. He suspected that there would be a gun, or maybe a ball bat in close reach.

 

“I’m Dean Winchester,” he said. “This is my brother, Sam, and my partner, Cas.”

 

The man’s face broke out in a broad smile. “Pleasure to meet you, Dean. I’m Brian. Maryanne told me plenty about you.”

 

Brian ushered them the rest of the way inside and flipped the sign on the front door to “closed”. “I don’t normally close up shop this early, but I reckon this is important enough to warrant it. I really do appreciate you boys coming.”

 

“Maryanne said you needed our help,” Dean said.

 

Brian led them to the back of the shop, into a room with a small table, barely big enough for all four of them to squeeze around. “We’ve had a few spooks around here,” Brian replied, not quite answering Dean’s question. “If it was just a matter of hunting down a wolf, or salting and burning some bones, we wouldn’t have any trouble.”

 

“But it’s not,” Cas prompted.

 

“No, it’s not.” Brian rose again, and Dean could see his agitation. He’d had years to learn how to read other people, and now he could tell that Brian hadn’t liked asking for assistance, hadn’t liked calling in strangers for what he seemed to feel was a local matter. Dean understood that impulse and could respect it.

 

He set down four mostly-clean tumblers on the table and poured a couple of fingers of amber liquid in each. When Dean took a sip, his eyebrows rose in appreciation. Brian had put out the good stuff.

 

“Two months ago, we had some cattle mutilations,” Brian began. “Stomachs ripped out, throats torn open, that sort of thing. We thought it was maybe a wolf, maybe a mountain lion. We haven’t had too many of those, but it was possible.”

 

“Maryanne said there were some human tracks,” Dean said, taking another sip.

 

Brian nodded. “It rampaged for three days. We lost half a dozed cows and a couple of sheep the first two nights. On the third, one of the local farmers was killed.” He sighed. “And then the killings stopped. We talked it over, thought whatever had done it moved on. Since the ground didn’t take tracks well, we didn’t have evidence to the contrary.”

 

Dean frowned. “It started again.”

 

Brian tossed back the alcohol in his glass. “Yeah, it started again last month. Another man died, and more animals, and then the killings stopped. By then, I had figured out that the stories about werewolves were probably true, and there were tracks that looked human.”

 

“And this month?” Dean asked.

 

“I called Maryanne a couple of days ago, before the first day of the full moon, which you already know,” Brian admitted. “I wanted to try taking care of it ourselves. We went out hunting last night, figured we could find it before you got here, and we’d repay you for coming all this way.”

 

“You didn’t find it.” Dean took another sip, wanting to savor the liquor; he rarely got anything this good back in Cypress Grove. There were too many other things to spend money on—shoes or clothing or schoolbooks for growing kids. Food and sweets and glasses, things that they couldn’t trade for or buy in town that they had to drive to Omaha or Denver to get.

 

The alcohol was almost worth the drive, come to think of it.

 

Brian sighed. “We didn’t find it. We have two more nights, if the pattern holds. Otherwise, we’re going to be stuck doing this again next month.”

 

“We could set a trap,” Sam suggested quietly. “There’s a lot of country out there. It’ll be easier if we can get it to come to us.”

 

Dean considered the idea. “That might work, although werewolves can be sneaky bastards. It might figure out that it’s a trap.”

 

“Then we stick the best shot by the trap, and the rest of us go out looking.” Sam’s jaw took on that stubborn tilt Dean remembered so well. Sam was getting attached to the plan now.

 

“It’s a good idea,” Cas said quietly, nudging Dean with his foot under the table. “Brian, do you have a sharpshooter?”

 

Brian hesitated for a moment. “I suppose. I don’t know that anyone is going to want to sit out there by themselves, though.”

 

“I’ll wait with them,” Dean offered. “I’m probably not going to be of much use to a hunting party with my leg anyway.”

 

Sam frowned. “Maybe I should stay with you.”

 

“How good of a shot are you going to be with that eye?” Dean hated to bring it up, but losing an eye made a difference, and he didn’t want to take chances with a werewolf.

 

Sam shrugged. “I’ve been practicing.”

 

Cas’ brow was furrowed in a way that told Dean he was profoundly unhappy. “I can help with the hunt, Brian.”

 

Dean knew that Cas didn’t want to leave his side—really, they hadn’t spent any time apart to speak of for the last nine years.

 

Brian either didn’t notice, or chose not to say anything, because he slapped his hand on the table and grinned. “Great. We start at sundown—but first, let’s get you fed.”


	16. Sioux Falls & Garretson, South Dakota, Early Spring 2010

"I need you to take Ben out somewhere." Dean leaned in close to Castiel's ear.

 

Castiel searched his face. "You want to speak with Bobby alone."

 

Dean nodded. "I—I need to make arrangements, just in case. We can wait around another few days, but no more than that."

 

Dean turned to look over his shoulder at Ben, who was lying idly on the couch in Bobby's study, spinning the wheels on a toy Impala that had once belonged to Dean. Dean had no idea where Bobby had found it, but Ben had kept the car in his pocket since Bobby had produced it.

 

"I understand." Castiel's shoulder brushed Dean's, and Dean found himself leaning into the angel's welcoming warmth ever so slightly. "I believe my driving has improved enough that I can drive us into town."

 

Dean turned to look at Cas. "We're going to need to have a conversation tonight, finish planning this."

 

Castiel gave a quick jerk of his head. "Of course. Ben? Would you like to go to the store with me?"

 

Ben didn't say anything in response, but he did roll off the couch and stick the toy car in his pocket.

 

"I'll see you in a little while, son," Dean said, trying to catch the boy's eye.

 

Ben nodded.

 

Dean sighed; Ben had said very little in the last few days, but Dean had no intention of forcing him to speak. He remembered what it had been like after his own mom's death, how he hadn't spoken for days at a time. Dean was willing to give Ben all the time he needed.

 

And Dean knew that he still hadn't faced his own panic at the prospect of being a single father and solely responsible for Ben's care. Right now, all Dean wanted to think about was stopping Lucifer.

 

"I know what you wanted to ask me, and you already know my answer," Bobby growled as soon as Dean entered the kitchen.

 

"Bobby—"

 

"I still haven't been able to reach Sam. Maybe you ought to wait for him."

 

"I can't." Dean sighed. "Besides, you and I both know that it's probably better if Sam and Lucifer aren't in the same room together. I don't want Sam too tempted."

 

Bobby snorted. "That's just an excuse."

 

"Look me in the eye and tell me that Sam will definitely say no if it means saving my life," Dean shot back. Bobby shifted in his wheelchair and remained silent. "Sam is my biggest weakness, Bobby, and I'm his. It's better this way."

 

"Dean, you can't ask me to look after that boy." Dean could hear the desperation in Bobby's voice now. "It was different when you and Sam were kids. I had the use of my legs then, but I'm an old man."

 

"There's nobody else I can ask, Bobby." Dean sat down at the kitchen table, wanting to meet Bobby's eyes without being too obvious about it. "If Cas makes it, he'll stick around for Ben's sake, but he doesn't have a clue what a human kid needs."

 

"What about Sam?" Bobby asked, his eyes keen.

 

Dean's stomach twisted as he replied, hating the truth. "If something happens to me, I don't know if Sam will going to be in any shape to take care of Ben. I'd rather it was you. Cas will help."

 

Bobby grunted. "I hate to say it, boy, but you're probably right."

 

Dean chuckled. "You don't say that very often."

 

"Savor the moment," Bobby advised dryly. "This apocalypse needs to end, and if you think you got a plan, then I'll do whatever I can to help."

 

"How many hunters have you reached?" Dean asked.

 

"Not many," Bobby replied, wheeling himself over to the counter to pour a cup of coffee. "Kevin Sorenson said he'd be there, for one, but you know how he is."

 

"He's irritating as hell, but better than nothing. Can he bring anybody?"

 

"I asked him to round up anyone he could." Bobby took a sip out of his mug, looking thoughtful. "Damn phones are unreliable, and radios are antiques and hard to come by."

 

Dean ran a hand through his hair and was reminded that he needed a haircut soon—assuming he survived the confrontation with Lucifer. "Whatever you can do, Bobby."

 

"When are you going to tell Ben he's staying here?" Bobby asked knowingly.

 

Dean rose from his chair. "I'm waiting for the right moment."

 

Bobby's muttered "idjit" followed Dean out of the room, but Dean found that he couldn't disagree.

 

~~~~~

 

Partly because of Bobby's prodding, Dean asked Ben to take a walk with him through the salvage yard that night after dinner. The sun had already gone down, and the quarter moon hung over the salvage yard.

 

"You're leaving." That flat statement from Ben probably should have surprised Dean, but he knew that kids were often smarter than adults gave them credit for being.

 

Dean stuck his hands in his pockets and cursed the circumstances that made it necessary to burden a ten-year-old with the knowledge that the world was ending. "I'd tell you that it's not permanent, but I can't make that promise. You know that by now."

 

"I don't understand." Ben kicked at the tire of a rusted-out Willys.

 

Dean leaned against the door and looked up at the night sky. "Do you remember when I told you that the devil was causing all of this?"

 

"Yeah." Ben eyed him warily.

 

"Well, I'm the only one who can stop him, and I have to try."

 

"Why you?" Ben demanded. "Why can't someone else do it?"

 

"I wish I could have someone else do it," Dean replied. "I'd give just about anything to give this job to somebody else, but I can't. It's my responsibility."

 

Ben scowled. "Then why haven't you done it yet?"

 

Dean absorbed the blow, wishing he had a better answer. "I wasn't sure how."

 

"But you know how to do it now?"

 

"Cas and I have a chance at it, but it's a long shot." Dean squatted down so that he was on Ben's level. "I figure you're old enough to know the truth, and not to have it sugarcoated. So, I want you safe, and I want to protect you. The only way to do that is to go after the son of a bitch and send him back to hell."

 

"I want to go with you," Ben protested, and his bottom lip trembled. "I want to help."

 

Dean swallowed. "I know you do, but the best way you can do that is to stick with Bobby. He's like my dad, and I want to know there's someone looking out for him."

 

Ben shook his head in mute denial.

 

Dean put his hands on Ben's shoulders. "I want to keep you safe, and it'll make me feel better knowing you and Bobby are going to take care of each other."

 

"Promise me this is the last time you leave me behind," Ben demanded. "Swear."

 

Dean didn't want to promise anything, not when he didn't know the outcome, not when he didn't know what the future held for them. Still, Ben deserved to have some hope to hang onto. Gripping Ben's shoulders, he swore. "I promise. If I come back from this, I'm not going to leave you behind again."

 

Ben nodded, and Dean pulled him into a tight hug, fear rising up in his chest. The reality of what it meant to have full responsibility for a child's care overwhelmed him for a moment, and then Dean shoved it away.

 

"Come on." Dean started back for the house. "It's getting late, and you should probably be in bed."

 

"I'm not tired," Ben argued.

 

Dean smiled. "Yeah, okay. One more hour, and then bed."

 

One hour turned into three as Dean taught Ben the finer points of poker, with Bobby and Cas as willing participants. Ben was tired enough that he didn't protest when Dean finally sent him to bed around midnight, and Bobby immediately followed.

 

"Come on." Dean led Cas upstairs to the room that had been Bobby's before the chair.

 

Cas followed him inside, standing in the center of the room awkwardly as Dean closed the door.

 

"Did you get it done?" Dean asked.

 

Castiel nodded, his hands hidden in the pockets of his trench coat. "The demon believed me when I told him that you would be in Garretson to accept Michael's offer. I believe Lucifer will be waiting for your arrival."

 

"You think?"

 

Castiel nodded. "If Lucifer can kill you before you agree to become Michael's vessel, he will have won a great victory. I indicated that you had decided to do so in order to save Sam."

 

Dean nodded. "Let's hope that he buys it. Bobby thinks we'll have some help, but he didn't know how many."

 

He fidgeted, still standing in front of the closed door, finding it too difficult to broach the next subject.

 

"I know what you want to ask me, Dean."

 

"Yeah?"

 

"Ben is yours," Castiel said simply. "And I will protect him in the same way you would."

 

Dean sat down on the mattress, waiting for Cas to join him. "Thanks. If something happens to me, try and find Sam, okay? Tell him what happened. I already told Bobby that Ben was to stay with him."

 

"I understand."

 

"I figured you would." Dean suspected that Cas understood better than he did why it was so hard for him to trust Sam with his son. "I have to ask you something else."

 

"Anything."

 

"Do you—do you know where I'll end up? I don't care if I don't go to heaven, but I don't want…" Dean trailed off, swallowing hard. It had taken nearly everything he had to ask that question, but he had to know.

 

"Remember what I told you, Dean? About the first seal?" Dean kept his eyes on the patterned moonlight on the floor even as he felt the tentative weight of Cas' arm around his shoulders. "You _are_ a righteous man. I believe that if—when you die, you will be gathered to the arms of my Father. I have faith."

 

"Even after everything you've seen?" Dean whispered.

 

"Even then."

 

Castiel left his arm where it lay across Dean's shoulders, and Dean could just see Cas' long fingers loosely curled out of the corner of his eye. Dean knew that he could raise his head, and Cas' lips would be a hairsbreadth from his own. He could see himself closing the distance easily, wrapping Cas in a heated embrace, forgetting everything for one night.

 

But Dean had known for a while now that he didn't want one night; he wanted _years_. If he died—hopefully taking Lucifer down with him—Dean wanted Cas to know that it was more than sex, more than a moment's comfort before the end.

 

Instead he leaned into Cas, Dean's head resting against Castiel's, trying to have the same kind of faith that Cas did.

 

~~~~~

 

Later, Dean would remember very little about the fight with Lucifer. He could recall arriving in Garretson and meeting up with Kevin and a couple of other hunters in the nearly deserted town. Word of mouth had indicated a heavy demonic presence, probably because of Lucifer's love of irony, since that was the location of Devil's Gulch.

 

Dean could remember the smell of sulfur as they walked into the Gulch, and the appearance of Lucifer, his vessel's skin sloughing off, leaving raw patches on his face and extremities. He recalled snatches of the fight that seemed almost like they were happening to someone else, Castiel close by his side.

 

He remembered the searing pain that shot through the palm of his hand when he seized the sword Castiel wielded, just above Cas' hand, as they plunged it into Lucifer's neck together, moving as one. Dean recalled Cas' warning shout that had him closing his eyes before the flash of light he could see through his eyelids.

 

That was the last he remembered, however, until he was awoken by a hand on his shoulder, and an insistent voice calling his name.

 

"Dean! Please, Dean. You must wake up."

 

Dean blinked open gummy eyelids, Castiel's face a blur above him. "Cas?"

 

"Yes. Here."

 

Dean felt Castiel's arm raising him up, as well as the straw pressing against his dry lips insistently. He sucked thirstily, feeling the cool water easing his dry mouth and throat. "Thanks," he murmured as Cas pulled the glass away. "Where am I?"

 

"The hospital. I had to wake you."

 

Dean glanced around, seeing white walls, hearing beeping machines, and feeling the scratchy stiffness of hospital sheets. "How'd I get here?"

 

"I brought you here."

 

Dean shook his head slowly. "I don't—did we get him?"

 

"Yes. Half the gulch fell on you." Cas' hand was cupping his cheek, and Dean kept his eyes open with some difficulty. "You had a bad concussion, and your leg was crushed. The doctors wanted to amputate, but—"

 

Dean pushed himself up without waiting to hear the end of Cas' sentence, relieved to see the outlines of both of his legs under the sheet.

 

"Stay still," Cas said, sounding irritable. "I was trying to tell you, I convinced the doctors to save your leg, but we cannot stay here."

 

Dean sank back down onto the bed. "Why not?"

 

"Because there is sickness going around this place. Many have already died, and I will not lose you to it." Castiel leaned in close. "I have enough energy to transport both of us to Bobby's house, but I wanted your permission."

 

Dean blinked, trying to sort through what Cas was telling him when his brain felt fuzzy. As he stared at Cas, he realized that the familiar trench coat and suit were nowhere to be seen. "What are you wearing?"

 

Castiel sighed, clearly frustrated. "I borrowed some of your clothing. I cannot waste the energy repairing my own right now, not when you need me."

 

The words slowly penetrated Dean's foggy brain. "Okay. Looks good on you."

 

"Dean, we must leave the hospital," Castiel said urgently, leaning closer, and Dean could smell sweat and fabric softener, and he realized that the stubble on Cas' face was thicker. "Do you understand?"

 

Dean nodded. "The tubes have to come out." He lifted his right hand, staring at the thick bandages. "I burned it."

 

"On the sword, yes," Castiel agreed. "It was a bad burn."

 

"You'll have to do most of the work, then. I'll walk you through it."

 

Dean had absconded from hospitals before, and had snuck his dad and Sam out of a few as well. He was grateful for that now as he explained to Cas how to remove the IV and the catheter—something that would have been highly embarrassing if Cas had so much as blinked an eye at the prospect.

 

Instead, Castiel followed Dean's instructions in a business-like manner, as though it was no different than killing demons, and when everything was disconnected, Dean motioned to the door. "Lock it."

 

Dean was feeling a little more lucid now, and he suspected that the pain medication was wearing off. "Clothes?"

 

Castiel shook his head. "I don't have any for you, and I believe it will be too difficult to get your pants over the bandages on your leg."

 

Dean pulled the covers off, seeing the cast covering his left leg from ankle to mid-thigh. "Shit. How bad are we talking?"

 

"The bone in the lower leg was crushed, and the skin lacerated." Castiel's grim expression gave Dean some idea of how bad it was. "It took all of my power to get you here, and I have only now recovered enough to transport you to Bobby's."

 

"How long have I been out?" Dean asked, alarmed. He'd assumed that he'd been unconscious for no more than a few hours, but something in Castiel's voice told him otherwise.

 

"Several days. The doctors were not certain that you would wake again." Castiel grasped Dean's forearm. "Your injuries were grave."

 

"I'm getting that." Dean pushed himself into a sitting position. "What else?"

 

"The doctors were forced to place you in a medically induced coma because of your head injury." Castiel spoke as though he was quoting someone else. "I didn't want to leave you."

 

"Okay." Dean took a deep breath. "Okay. We'll go back to Bobby's. What day is it, Cas?"

 

"It is past time for your meeting with Sam," Castiel said, apparently reading Dean's fears. "I couldn't leave you."

 

"It's okay. Get me to Bobby's, and then you can go find Sam." Dean saw the objection on Cas' face, and he moved to answer it quickly. "Like I'm going anywhere. You'll know where to find me, Cas, but someone needs to let Sam know what happened."

 

Cas nodded slowly. "Very well. I think it will better if you're standing for this."

 

Dean swallowed, knowing that the pain was going to be overwhelming. "Okay."

 

Biting back waves of nausea and dizziness, Dean slowly swung his legs over the side of the bed. Castiel leaned against the bed on Dean's right side and put an arm around Dean's waist, slinging Dean's arm around his neck. "Hold on," Castiel said grimly.

 

Dean was no sooner balanced on his good leg than he felt the familiar disorientation that came from traveling by angel. Unfortunately, as soon as they arrived in the familiar upstairs bedroom, Dean's injured leg bumped the floor, and the resultant pain sent him back into the darkness.


	17. North Texas and Oklahoma, Spring 2010

Sam pulled up in front of the address Rufus had given Bobby. The car he’d stolen—well, borrowed, given that its original owner wasn’t going to need it again—was nearly out of gas. As he parked across the street, Sam noted the overgrown lawn and half-open door, usually indicators of an empty house.

 

The small town in north Texas was nearly deserted from what Sam had seen—the sidewalks empty of people, houses and shops boarded up, only a few tumble weeds had rolled down the main street.

 

Sam couldn’t quite get over how much everything had changed in only a few months. First, War, then later, Famine, Pestilence and Death—the Four Horsemen—had cut a swathe of destruction. Storms and other natural disasters decimated entire towns. Demonic activity had increased exponentially, creating chaos.

 

In years to come, what would they say the death toll had been, and all because he had fallen for a pretty girl speaking pretty words? Because Sam had wanted to save the world, and save his brother, and he hadn’t cared how it got done.

 

And now he was going to find the Colt _and_ save the world, even if it meant leaving Dean behind, because if Dean couldn’t man up and see the big picture, then Sam would. Sam would always watch his brother’s back; he would always get the job done.

 

Sam approached the house warily, pulling his gun out of the back of his pants. He called out, then pushed the door the rest of the way open. “Hello! I’m Sam Winchester! Rufus sent me.”

 

There was no answer, and as Sam moved further into the house, he saw that the place had been trashed. The loose wires hanging from the walls, the empty space on the entertainment center, all indicated that looters had been here. Of course, just because looters had ransacked the place didn’t mean that someone hadn’t been looking for a specific object.

 

Even though he didn’t have much hope, Sam began a methodical search of the house for anything that might indicate where the Colt was, if it had ever been there, or if someone had taken it. Two hours later, Sam finally had to give up. There was no sign of the weapon, and with no way to tell if the Colt had ever been there, Sam had to admit that this was another dead end.

 

“Shit.” Sam wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, then ran a hand down his face. Dean had been right; this was another wild goose chase.

 

The only thing to do was to head to the meeting place.

 

~~~~~

 

Sam swore fluently, staring at the steam coming out from under the hood of the Ford sedan. Only nine miles outside of Stamford, and the damn thing had overheated. He apparently hadn’t needed to worry about running out of gas, but getting to the next town was going to be tough, to say the least.

 

Shaking out his map, Sam spread it out across the trunk. The warm sun beat down on the back if his neck, but the early spring breeze cooled him off nicely. According to the map, he had a six-mile walk to Haskell, and then he’d have to find another ride of some sort, and the gas to get him out of Texas and into Oklahoma.

 

Worse, Sam needed money; no one was taking credit cards anymore.

 

Pulling out his cell phone, Sam checked for a signal without much hope, and he wasn’t disappointed. There were no bars, and no indication that the cell phone would do him any good at all.

 

With a sigh, Sam pulled his bag out of the backseat of the car, and then began to stuff bottles of water and granola bars in the spare corners. He settled the strap over his shoulder and began trudging down the road.

 

The walk gave Sam more time to think than he liked. Every step reminded him that he’d fucked up—again. If something happened to Dean before they met up again Sam was going to have a hard time forgiving himself. If something happened to Castiel or Ben or Lisa, what little trust Dean had in Sam these days was probably going to evaporate.

 

Sam thrust all self-doubts, and all worry, to the back of his mind, concentrating instead on the feel of the sun on his head and back, the sound of his footfalls on the asphalt, the smell of grass and blacktop. If he could just focus on the sensory information, Sam could forget the rest of it.

 

He kept up a steady pace, stopping at frequent intervals to drink water, knowing that it would do him no good to become dehydrated. Some hours later, Sam strode into Haskell. In the strange way of the apocalypse, at least that he’d noticed, the odd town would remain virtually untouched, and Haskell appeared to be one of them.  Folks were going about their business on the streets, the shops were open, and as far as Sam could tell, there were half as many abandoned homes as they’d been seeing.

 

He was on what looked like Haskell’s main street, looking around for a ride, when an authoritative voice stopped him. “Can I help you, son?”

 

Sam froze, finding a man in a tan sheriff’s uniform standing in front of him, arms crossed in front of his chest. “Uh, my car broke down a few miles back. I had to walk in.”

 

“I see that.” The sheriff looked him up and down, and while Sam thought he could probably take him—the sheriff was middle aged, of average height, and he wasn’t all that imposing. Then again, Sam was alone, and the sheriff was on home turf.

 

Sam raised his hands, trying to placate the man. “I don’t want any trouble, sir. I’m on my way to meet my brother in Oklahoma.”

 

“Then I suggest you keep moving, son.” The sheriff somehow managed to give the impression that he was going to reach for his weapon without moving an inch. “We’ll get you water, food, whatever you need to keep going, but you’re not welcome here. I’m sure you understand.”

 

Sam took a deep breath. “Is there a way I could get transportation of some sort? I’m supposed to meet him in ten days. It’s taken three days to get this far. Please.”

 

“Sorry. I can’t do that. We can’t risk strangers being here, and we don’t have the extra gasoline. Supplies are too short.”

 

Sam wanted to explain that he and his brother were trying to stop all of the things that were going wrong. He desperately wanted to explain that he had to reach Dean, that the fate of the world depended upon it.

 

The sheriff uncrossed his arms, and his right hand drifted a little closer to the gun on his hip.

 

“I understand,” Sam replied, giving the sheriff the look that usually had the most suspicious folks trusting him. “Just some water then, and if you have any beef jerky, something like that, I’d be happy to pay. I don’t have much, but—”

 

“We’ll get you kitted out, if you want to wait in the station.” The sheriff motioned up the street, where Sam could see a sign for the sheriff’s station. His hand still hovered in the vicinity of his weapon, and Sam nodded, trying to appear meek.

 

Sam learned a lesson in Haskell: either give small towns a wide berth, or go in after the sun went down. The sheriff never asked for Sam’s name, nor did he offer his own. Instead, the sheriff locked him in a cell “for his own protection” while off gathering up what Sam needed for the trek to Weinert.

 

When the sheriff returned, he carried a plate with a sandwich and a bag of chips. “Sun will be going down soon. I suggest you stay here tonight, enjoy the bed, and you can be on your way tomorrow.”

 

Since the sheriff made no move to unlock the cell, he wasn’t giving Sam any choice in the matter. “I appreciate the hospitality.”

 

The sheriff gave a dry laugh. “I am sorry about this, son, but this is my community, and I have a responsibility to keep these people safe.”

 

“I understand.” Sam did; too many small towns had been decimated by disease and demons.

 

Dinner was decent, and the mattress, while lumpy, was still better than the ground. The next morning, the sheriff woke him just as the sun rose. “I’ll give you a ride out of town.”

 

Sam supposed that he should be grateful to get that much. The sheriff dropped him off with more supplies a couple of miles north of Haskell. “Weinert is about ten miles that way,” the sheriff said, pointing. “Just follow the highway.”

 

Sam thanked the man, then started walking, but he had no intention of crossing Weinert’s city limits before the sun had gone down, not until he knew what his reception would be.

 

A mile outside of Weinert, Sam found a spot off the highway with some shade, and he paused to drink a bottle of water and eat some jerky and a granola bar. Then, with his gun in easy reach, Sam stretched out for a nap.

 

~~~~~

 

After Haskell, Sam had worried that he’d be late to his meeting with Dean, but he arrived in Norman four days early. Sam had stolen a car in Weinert and had siphoned gas every chance he got. Getting to Dean was the important thing; Sam would break whatever laws he had to on the way.

 

Oklahoma wasn’t in much better shape than any other state. Tornados and flash floods had devastated the region, and softball-sized hail had decimated crops and livestock. The sickness that had hit the east and west coasts hadn’t killed quite as many, however, and if the streets were emptier than they had been, there were still people.

 

With only four days until Dean—and presumably Castiel—arrived, Sam didn’t see the point in trying to find work. Instead, Sam found a cheap motel and looked through the paper, trying to find a hunt in the area. Sam figured that if he had something juicy by the time Dean showed up, Dean might be more inclined to forgive him for taking off.

 

There were a couple of promising leads on vengeful spirits in the area, and Sam circled the stories. He spent the rest of his time cleaning weapons, making certain that his guns were well-oiled and his knives were sharp, flipping through the limited channels on the television set, and attempting to call either Dean or Bobby.

 

Cell phones were still all but useless, and while the landlines were working better, the connection usually sucked. Sam could dial out, but Dean wasn’t answering, and chances were he wasn’t receiving the calls either.

 

Two days before Dean was due to arrive, Sam stood outside, staring up at the night sky with all of the others staying at the motel—and probably everyone else in the area. The sky burned red, even though the sun had long since gone down, and it appeared as though the very stars were falling from the sky.

 

“Do you think it’s the end of the world?” The woman’s voice broke the dense silence that surrounded the crowd.

 

No one answered, and Sam couldn’t very well tell her that the apocalypse had already come. The signs in the sky spoke of something very serious, however, and Sam’s mind raced with the various scenarios. Was it possible that Dean had said yes to Michael? Or that he’d killed Lucifer? Or perhaps this was the result of Dean’s death, and the end of Michael’s vessel and any chance for the world’s survival.

 

Sam had no doubt that it was significant, but he had no idea what it meant.

 

~~~~~

 

Time weighed on Sam in a way it never had before, and he began to understand why Castiel had refused to leave Dean’s side. Everywhere Sam went, he heard stories of the missing—family members who couldn’t be found, or were out of contact. Phones were now worth fuck-all, the postal service had been sporadic at best, and Dean was two days late.

 

Two days that felt like a fucking eternity.

 

Torn between staying and waiting for Dean to finally show up, and heading up to Bobby’s to see if he could get any news of Dean, Sam packed and unpacked half a dozen times. He checked his cell phone for any messages, and kept trying to call Dean every chance he got. Sam attempted to call Castiel, too, but there was no answer. All he could get was a pre-recorded message that “the person you are trying to call is unavailable or out of service”.

 

Finally, in a calculated risk, Sam began haunting the sort of bars hunters might patronize. After the last time Sam had run into other hunters, he knew that he needed to keep a low profile, but he was so desperate for news of Dean, he was willing to take the risk.

 

Sam allowed his hair to fall in front of his face and hoped the beard growth would obscure his identity, even though his size was distinctive, even among hunters. Ordering a beer, Sam seated himself in the middle of the bar where he could catch snatches of conversation, listening for any news that might apply to Dean.

 

“You should have seen it!” Sam didn’t have to strain to hear the conversation; the man’s loud voice carried clearly over the din of the bar. “This light just shot up straight into the sky, like a nuclear explosion.”

 

“What about Winchester?”

 

Sam froze, turning on his bar stool to face the table full of men. “Winchester?” That same voice spoke again, and now Sam recognized the man as someone his dad had once introduced to them to as Kevin Sorenson. He had been a young, cocky hunter back then, with white-blond hair and a laughable attempt at a mustache. Sam had never much cared for him, and it didn’t look like Kevin had changed much in the intervening years.

 

Still, if he’d been around—

 

“Yeah, Dean Winchester died a fucking hero,” Kevin said, wiping beer foam from the yellow fuzz on his upper lip. “But everybody knew he was going to go out like that, right?”

 

“What are you saying?” Sam spoke before he could remember that he was planning to keep a low profile. “What about Dean?”

 

Kevin stared at him, face blank, before recognition dawned in his watery blue eyes. “Sam Winchester.”

 

Sam could hear the whispers start and flit around the room—his name and “Dean’s brother,” and Sam suddenly realized that if that was the only thing he ever was—Dean’s brother—it would be enough, if only Dean was there.

 

“Yeah. What about Dean?”

 

Kevin stood slowly, raising his hands as though he thought Sam might attack any moment. “Look, your brother put out a call for any available hunters, and I showed up.”

 

“He’s late,” Sam replied, taking a step closer, his fear growing as Kevin refused to spill the information he so desperately needed. “Dean was supposed to meet me here. You know why he isn’t here.”

 

“He went after Lucifer, him and that angel of his,” Kevin said slowly. “Sam, I’m sorry.”

 

The words hit Sam like bullets. “No.”

 

“That kid of his—Ben, right? Dean said he was doing it for his son. He didn’t make it out of there alive.”

 

Sam shook his head. “What about Castiel? Did you see him?”

 

“Far as I know, he was with Dean.” Kevin shrugged. “Hell, maybe he survived somehow.”

 

“And Ben?” Sam asked faintly.

 

Kevin shrugged. “Fuck if I know. I think Dean said something about leaving him with Bobby Singer.”

 

“Are you sure?” Sam asked, long legs crossing the space between him and Kevin in two quick strides. He leaned over, nose to nose with Kevin. He just barely resisted the urge to grab the man’s jacket, knowing that Kevin had more friends there than he did. “Are you _sure_ my brother’s dead?”

 

“I’m sure.” Kevin managed a sympathetic expression, although Sam could see the fear flickering in his eyes. “I’m sorry, man. Your brother died killing Lucifer.”

 

“How?” Sam demanded. “_How_?”

 

Kevin swallowed audibly. “Dean put out a call for every hunter he could get through Bobby. There weren’t all that many of us, and there were a hell of a lot more demons.”

 

“And Dean?” Sam pressed.

 

“Him and that angel went straight up to Lucifer. I don’t know how they knew he was going to be there, but they did.” Kevin shrugged. “Dean pulls this sword out of nowhere, with that angel next to him, and they plunged the sword into his neck. There was this huge blast of light, and Dean just—exploded.”

 

“Exploded,” Sam echoed dully.

 

“There was nothing I could do,” Kevin insisted. “I swear, Sam. If I could have stopped it, I would have. I’m sorry.”

 

“You’re lying. You have to be lying.”

 

Kevin shook his head, his expression going hard. “I told you exactly how it happened, Winchester.”

 

“You were _there_,” Sam shouted. “You should have helped him!”

 

The anger rose up and choked him. There was no one else to blame—no one but himself—but the way Kevin had been talking about Dean and his death, as though it didn’t matter, as though Kevin were the hero, enraged Sam. His hands were around Kevin’s throat, squeezing, before he’d even thought about it.

 

It took four men to pull him off, and Sam only stopped his attack when one of them pulled a gun and stuck the muzzle in his face. “Get out of here, Winchester.”

 

Sam made another move in Kevin’s direction, and the man pulled back the hammer on the revolver. “Get out.”

 

After another long moment in which Sam gave serious consideration to forcing the man to shoot him, he turned on his heel and left the bar, still in a fog of rage and grief.

 

He left town that day, and he never went back.


	18. Rural South Dakota, Late Summer 2016

Sam felt Dean shifting next to him, subtly moving his bad leg. Sam was feeling more than a bit stiff himself, so he could sympathize.

 

He couldn’t see Dean very well. It made more sense for Dean to be on his blind side, as they waited to see if the werewolf would take an interest in the cow staked. The cow was farther away from the tree and the deer blind they were perching in, but this option had been the best one available.

 

“What’s wrong?” he whispered when he felt Dean shift again.

 

“Bad position for my leg,” Dean admitted in a low voice. “How about you? You okay?”

 

Sam felt himself bristle at the question, even though he knew it was hypocritical. Dean couldn’t help being his big brother any more than Sam could help being smart, or liking books; it was just who Dean _was_. It was just that every time Dean acted solicitous, Sam felt like Dean was treating him like a little kid again—maybe because it had been so long since someone had cared if Sam was okay.

 

That was why every time Sam felt his anger rise at Dean for showing concern, or being too protective, he reminded himself that life without Dean was a lot worse than life with him.

 

“I’m fine.”

 

Even though he tried to hold back his irritation, Sam knew he hadn’t done a very good job when he heard Dean’s sigh.

 

“Sorry,” Sam managed.

 

“Forget it. Let’s just get this done.”

 

Sam settled back in to watch for the werewolf, realizing that this might not have been the best idea he’d ever had. This was the first long stretch of time he had been alone with Dean; back at home, there was always someone else around—Cas, or one of the kids, or a neighbor who needed help. He’d been gone a lot lately, too, helping Howl out as the summer drew to a close.

 

Now, the silence between them stretched out in long, endless seconds. Sam tried to focus on the clearing, on checking every shadow for a slinking shape, the memories of their last werewolf case sharp in his mind.

 

He could still remember Madison’s face, her expression as she realized what she was, what she was going to become. He could still remember what it felt like to pull the trigger.

 

It would be easier this time, since he didn’t know the person. Easier for him and Dean and Cas to hunt the werewolf down, and then leave, because they didn’t have to live with the fact that they’d killed a neighbor or a friend.

 

A rustle in the underbrush pulled his attention back to _this_ job, and Sam felt Dean go absolutely still next to him. Sam tucked the butt of the rifle in tight against his shoulder, waiting for any sign of the creature.

 

Moments ticked by, and Sam felt a trickle of sweat drip down his forehead, into his good eye. He bit back a curse and wiped it away on the shoulder of his t-shirt. It took only a second, but that was enough.

 

The werewolf ran into the clearing, lured out by the prospect of an easy meal, no doubt, and the cow went down with a loud cry. Dean fired, but missed, and the werewolf’s head came up. Sam squeezed the trigger hurriedly, knowing even as he did that his shot wouldn’t be good.

 

The werewolf let out a yelp and began to limp out of the clearing, still moving far too quickly for Sam’s peace of mind. He dropped out of the deer blind without waiting for Dean, ignored his brother’s calls for him to wait, running after the injured werewolf.

 

Sam stumbled along in the werewolf’s wake, grateful that it had been injured badly enough to make the trail easy to follow. He never would have been able to keep up otherwise.

 

He burst out of the thick underbrush into a pasture and spotted the werewolf halfway up a little rise. Knowing that he would only get one shot, Sam waited for it to climb the hill, waited until it was silhouetted—a darker shape against the night sky, just barely visible by moonlight.

 

The werewolf paused, perhaps to catch its breath or gather its strength, and Sam breathed in, then pulled the trigger on the exhale.

 

His patience paid off when the creature went down, and Sam took a moment to gather himself, to let his heart stop pounding and the adrenalin stop pumping.

 

“What the fuck were you thinking?”

 

Dean’s voice startled a yelp out of him, and Sam whirled, gun at the ready. “Well?” Dean demanded. “What the fuck, Sam?”

 

“What?” Sam asked blankly.

 

Dean gestured wildly to the dead body at the top of the rise. “You ran after it. What if it had had half a brain and stopped to wait for you? You could have been killed.”

 

The old rage, white-hot and familiar, washed over him. “Aren’t you going to say anything about what a great shot that was?” Sam asked, his tone intentionally snide. “Not bad for a guy who’s half-blind, huh?”

 

“Fuck you, Sam,” Dean said, his voice dropping. “You didn’t even stop to think about the fact that I wouldn’t be able to keep up, did you? How do you think I would have felt if something would have happened?”

 

“Newsflash, Dean,” Sam shot back. “Shit happens, even to me, and you haven’t been around to stop it for years.”

 

Dean snarled. “No. You don’t get to lay this on me. You were the one who left and didn’t come back.”

 

“That’s not the point!” Sam cried, even though it was, at least partially. Dean hadn’t been around; Sam hadn’t had anyone to watch his back for years, and that pissed him off. “I’m a grownup, Dean. I can take risks and make decisions for myself. I don’t need your help, and I don’t need your permission.”

 

Dean didn’t respond for a long moment, and in the clear light of the full moon, Sam could see the emotions flitting across Dean’s face—anger, disappointment, grief—and then nothing at all. “Fine,” he said quietly. “I’ll stay with the body while you go get help moving it. No way is my leg going to handle a round trip. Looks like we can probably get a 4x4 up there.”

 

Sam felt a pang at Dean’s words and his dull tone. “Dean—”

 

“Go. The sooner you leave, the sooner we can get out of here.” Dean began limping up the hill to the werewolf’s body, and Sam watched him go, a little surprised that Dean hadn’t fought him harder.

 

But he had a feeling that this wasn’t over.

 

~~~~~

 

Dean sat with his back to the body, a few feet away, looking up at the stars and cursing himself for a fool. He would have said the same thing to Cas or Ben, though. He would have said the same to anyone he’d been hunting with; that was the first rule—you stayed with your partner, and you watched his back.

 

He flopped back on the grass, wondering why the hell he was even trying. The same anger and disappointment that had filled him that first winter without Sam filled Dean now. After what Sam had said, Dean felt as though his suspicions were correct; Sam didn’t need him, and it wouldn’t be long before Sam left. Sam never had felt the same way about sticking with family as Dean had; Dean was as angry with himself for expecting that this time would be different, as he was at Sam for what he’d said. 

 

Just look how Sam had treated Bobby—never contacting the old man, never calling, never even _trying_—and Bobby was the closest thing to family they had. Even if Sam had thought Dean was dead, he could have checked on Bobby.

 

“Dean!”

 

Dean would never admit it, but it was a relief to hear Cas’ voice calling out over the prairie. “Up here!”

 

Cas came racing up the hill, and for a moment, Dean could see that Cas wanted to run his hands down Dean’s body, checking for injuries, but he resisted. Instead, Cas headed over to the body, bending down to look it over. Dean wondered if he was remembering. When Cas looked up, Dean knew he was.

 

“The last one was harder to kill,” Cas said quietly, kneeling down next to Dean just as the rest of the hunting party came up the hill, Sam trailing behind. “What happened, Dean?” Cas asked urgently, but Dean shook his head, not wanting to talk about his argument with Sam in front of an audience.

 

Dean only half-listened to the shouts and cries of dismay from the other men, who appeared to know the victim.

 

And mostly, Dean thought, werewolves were just victims, people who were unlucky enough to get bitten—although he couldn’t say for sure that’s how this man became one.

 

He hoped the man hadn’t turned anyone else, and that no one else had turned the dead guy, because there was only so much that Dean could do.

 

Brian offered Dean a hand up and pulled him to his feet. “Thanks for your help,” he said quietly. “You boys will stay the night at my place tonight. We’ll bury our dead tomorrow.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Dean said sincerely. “It’s rough, losing someone like this.”

 

“Yes, it is,” Brian agreed. “But better to lose one now than lose a dozen more later.”

 

No one else spoke to them; the other members of the hunting party were too intent on taking care of the dead body. Dean wearily climbed into the back of Brian’s pickup, parked a hundred yards away. He didn’t think he could have moved much farther than that.

 

Cas sat next to him, putting an arm around Dean’s shoulders and pulling him in close. Dean was so weary he allowed the gesture, resting his head against Cas’ and sagging into the embrace.

 

When they reached Brian’s house, Dean followed the man up to the spare bedroom, grateful that Brian had given Sam the couch in the living room. He collapsed face-down on the bed, barely reacting when Cas tugged his boots off, or when Cas laid down next to him, an arm thrown over Dean’s back like he couldn’t stay close enough.

 

“What happened out there, Dean?”

 

Dean buried his face in the crook of his arm. “Cas—”

 

“Tell me. I need to know.”

 

“Sam went running after the werewolf without me, and we had words. It’s an old fight.”

 

He felt Cas kiss the back of his neck. “I was worried when I saw Sam coming without you,” Cas admitted, and Dean could feel Cas’ warm breath in his ear.

 

“I’m all right,” Dean replied. “Sam looked after me.”

 

“Not well enough.” And then Cas tugged at Dean until he was lying on his side, with Cas spooned up tight behind him, and Dean let himself relax and drift into sleep.

 

~~~~~

 

Sam had been on a few uncomfortable car rides, but this might take the cake. Dean hadn’t said more than two words to him on the drive back to Cypress Grove, and Cas had been similarly silent.

 

Although Sam wouldn’t have classified his relationship with Dean as good before the hunt, it had still been better than the strained silence that filled the Impala. Hell, Sam didn’t think that Dean had ever given him the silent treatment—unless you counted his tendency to avoid uncomfortable issues.

 

Sam had no idea what to say, though, or how to broach the topic.

 

When they pulled up in front of the house late that afternoon, Cas was the first out of the car. “Dean, about last night—” Sam tried.

 

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Dean got out of the car, limping up to the front door, and greeting a squealing Cora with a bear hug and a grin.

 

Sam followed more slowly, hesitating at the steps. He didn’t belong here; he couldn’t _be_ here right now.

 

Turning on his heel, Sam stalked away, past the barn and other outbuildings, into the grassy fields one of Dean’s neighbors rented out to grow hay.  The grass was tall enough to brush his wrists, and Sam wondered if they’d be mowing soon.

 

The sun beat down on the back of his neck, and Sam headed for the creek, just wanting a place to get away for a while.

 

“Sam!”

 

He wanted to keep walking, but Ben didn’t deserve his anger. Sam stopped, waiting for Ben to catch up. “Dad said you killed the werewolf.” Ben’s face was alight with excitement.

 

“Yeah, we did.” Sam tried to shake off the lingering melancholy. “Werewolves are hard.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because a lot of times, it’s just a regular person who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Sam breathed a sigh of relief as they reached the shade. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and the skin under his eye patch.

 

“Can I see?”

 

Sam froze at Ben’s question. “What?”

 

“You don’t have to show me,” Ben said quickly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

 

“No, it’s okay.” Sam took a deep breath, steeling himself for Ben’s reaction. He turned to face his nephew and raised the eye patch.

 

Ben’s eyes widened slightly, but he said nothing for a long moment. “How did it happen?”

 

Sam pulled the patch back down. “There are a lot of things I did that I’m not proud of, Ben. Things I had to do in order to survive.”

 

“But it doesn’t matter to us,” Ben protested. “You’re family.”

 

Sam wanted to argue that family wasn’t everything, that there were some things even blood couldn’t cover, but he didn’t. For all his maturity, Ben was still a kid, and there were some lessons that weren’t Sam’s place to teach.

 

“Do you mind if I go for a walk?” Sam asked instead. “Not that I don’t appreciate your company, but I’ve been surrounded by people for the last few days.”

 

Ben smiled, but his expression looked a little uncertain. “Sure, I get it. It’s hard to get privacy up at the house.”

 

“Yeah, it is.” Sam watched as Ben turned and walked away.

 

He wondered how long it would be before Ben learned that even family could disappoint you so deeply, you never quite got over it.

 

~~~~~

 

Dean saw Maryanne off with sincere thanks and let his kids catch him up on the news. All of his kids seemed to speak at once, voices overlapping with Mary’s excited signing.

 

“That’s enough!” Cas didn’t have to raise his voice too much to get everyone’s attention as Dean settled into a seat at the kitchen table. “One at a time, please.”

 

“We taught Scout to sit!” Henry burst out.

 

Dean exchanged an amused look with Cas. “That’s a useful lesson. Where is Scout?”

 

“In the barn,” Henry replied. “She needs a lot of sleep, because she’s just a puppy.”

 

“That’s true,” Dean agreed. “What else?”

 

He let his children’s voices sooth the hurt that Sam’s words had caused. “Where’s Ben?” he asked after awhile, surprised that he hadn’t seen his oldest yet.

 

Mary signed quickly.

 

“Why did he go after Sam?” Dean asked.

 

Mary shrugged, and she signed, “Dinner?”

 

“We’ll have dinner soon,” Cas said. “Just sandwiches tonight, though.”

 

The backdoor opened, and Ben walked in, frowning. “You okay, son?”

 

Ben shrugged. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

 

Dean could hear how unsettled he was, however, and he knew Ben well enough to know that something was wrong. “We’ll talk later, okay?”

 

Ben shook his head. “No, it’s cool, Dad. I think I’m going to get some work done in the barn, okay?”

 

“I’ll come out and join you in a bit.”

 

“Yeah, okay.”

 

Dean watched him leave and shook his head. “Okay, everyone. Chores had better be done by dinner. Cas is cooking.”

 

The rest of the kids dispersed, and Cas came over to lean on the table next to where Dean was sitting. “How’s the knee?”

 

“I probably need to ice it,” Dean admitted.

 

Cas nodded and went to collect an ice pack from the freezer. “That’s what I thought.” When he handed it off to Dean, he asked, “Do you want me to talk to Sam?”

 

“And say what?” Dean asked wearily. “Tell him that he’s not alone anymore, that he can stay, that he was a fucking idiot? It’s all been said, Cas.”

 

“You could apologize for yelling at him,” Cas pointed out.

 

Dean snorted. “I could, but I’m not sorry. He ran off without me, and he could have gotten himself killed. I’d have yelled at you, too.”

 

“Yes, but we do occasionally yell at each other, and our fights don’t last long.” Cas leaned down and pressed warm, dry lips to Dean’s. “Whatever happens, Dean, we’ll be fine.”

 

“I guess I can be grateful for small miracles,” Dean murmured, and pulled him back down for another kiss.


	19. Phoenix, Arizona, Mid-2013

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains somewhat graphic depictions of a medical nature. Fair warning.

Sam made his slow way up the three flights of stairs leading to the apartment he shared with Laura. They had been together for six months now, and while there were times she felt more like a roommate than a girlfriend, the life they’d eked out was the closest thing to normal Sam had had since Jess.

 

He worked second shift at one of the warehouses in town; Laura worked the breakfast shift at a nearby restaurant, and she often had dinner waiting for him when he got home.

 

The apartment was hot and stuffy, the curtains drawn against the bright Phoenix sun, the windows bolted against those who would try to steal their meager belongings. Sam was surprised to realize that Laura wasn’t home yet, and he began to open the windows and switch on fans to help move the air.

 

When he glanced inside the refrigerator, he saw a sandwich on a plate, with a note on it that read, simply, “Sam.”

 

Sam pulled it out and began to munch on it thoughtfully, barely noticing the dry bread, or the meat and cheese that tasted as though it was just this side of good. Laura usually brought over leftovers, or food that couldn’t be served to customers without risking a health code violation. The restaurant owner didn’t much care about his employees as long as they could work.

 

Good thing for Sam and Laura that they both had iron stomachs.

 

Sam finished off his meal and debated going out looking for Laura, but he couldn’t face a trip down the stairs, or walking five blocks to the restaurant. His feet ached too badly, and he was too weary.

 

Once he’d cleaned up and brushed his teeth, Sam collapsed face-first onto the bed, falling asleep almost immediately. He roused only once, when he felt the bed dip next to him, and Sam opened his eyes with a sleepy murmur. “Laura?”

 

“Go to sleep, Sam,” she murmured as she settled next to him. “It’s late.”

 

“I know,” Sam replied, his eyes already beginning to drift shut again. “Everythin’ all right?”

 

“I’m fine. Go back to sleep.”

 

Sam murmured, “Yeah, ‘kay,” and didn’t pull away when she stretched out next to him, even though it was really too hot to share body heat.

 

When he woke the next morning, Laura was already gone, and he stumbled into the kitchen for toast. They didn’t buy coffee; Laura didn’t drink it, and it was generally too expensive anyway. Mornings like this, Sam missed it horribly, though.

 

He took the bus to the warehouse, like he did five days a week, and began slinging boxes. It was mind-numbing work, and Sam let his thoughts drift, grateful for a chance to not think about anything for a while.

 

That evening was a repeat of the last; he arrived at their apartment building, climbed the stairs, and found a stuffy, empty apartment. Sam frowned, looking around dumbly as he realized just how _little_ he’d seen Laura lately.

 

They hadn’t spent more than an hour in each other’s company for almost a week.

 

Sam scrubbed his hands over his face, trying to wake himself up, before he turned around and headed back downstairs.

 

The streets were mostly empty. It was nearly midnight, and the few people who were out and about looked to be workers heading home, or those who were up to no good. He caught sight of a dealer selling to a thin, strung-out woman, and a couple of thugs with poorly hidden weapons.

 

Sam’s hand strayed towards the gun he’d tucked in the back of his jeans. They caught sight of his movement and crossed to the other side of the street. Sam figured that his size did have a few advantages—there weren’t a lot of people who would mess with him.

 

When he finally reached Red’s, the restaurant where Laura worked, he spotted her through the window. She seemed to see Sam at the same time, and her eyes widened. Sam entered, hearing the bell ring overhead, and he found an empty spot near the bar.

 

Laura joined him a few moments later. “Sam? Why are you here?”

 

“I was worried,” he replied simply. “Are you working late?”

 

“One of the others—is sick,” Laura said, still picking her way through English grammar. “I help out.”

 

“Okay, well, I’ll walk you home tonight,” Sam replied.

 

She smiled warmly. “I will bring food. Are you hungry?”

 

“Yeah, I’m hungry. That would be great.” Laura patted Sam’s hand and was about to move away, but he grabbed her wrist, careful not to hurt her. “Thank you.”

 

She smiled and pressed a brief kiss to his lips. “Be right back.”

 

Sam nodded and watched her go, suddenly realizing that there was something different about her. She looked thinner, maybe, or her hair was done differently. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but Sam knew that Laura had changed her appearance.

 

He was still puzzling over it when Laura put a burger and fries down in front of him. “Are you sure we have—”

 

“Don’t worry. Eat.” Sam ate because there was no way Laura could take the food back to the kitchen now; one way or another, the meal was coming out of Laura’s paycheck.

 

It had been so long since he’d had red meat, and the fries were hot and greasy. Sam tried to eat slowly, to savor each bite, but he had a hard time not inhaling his meal. When he was done sopping up every last bit of grease with the last bit of his bun, Sam pushed his plate away, smiling at Laura when she slid onto the barstool next to him. “Better?

“Yeah, I was starving.” Sam turned to look at her. “What’s going on, Laura?”

 

“I am helping a friend,” Laura replied firmly. “It is not your business.”

 

Sam looked closer, seeing the dark circles under Laura’s eyes, and realizing how tired she appeared. He didn’t feel as though it was his place to push, though. They lived together, occasionally they had sex, but they weren’t close.

 

Maybe it was time Sam tried to change that.

 

~~~~~

 

They both had the next day off, so Sam was a little surprised to roll over and discover that Laura was already up. As he blinked sleepily, Sam heard Laura throwing up in the tiny bathroom just off their bedroom.

 

Sam rolled out of bed and onto his feet, padding across the room to the doorway. Laura was kneeling, holding her hair out of her face with one hand, keeping her balance with the other, and Sam dashed forward to help her.

 

“Hey, you sick?”

 

“I’m fine,” Laura replied shakily, spitting into the toilet. “I will be fine.”

 

“Okay, well, we’ve got the day off,” Sam said soothingly. “You’ll have some time to get better, right? Maybe it’s just a 24 hour thing.”

 

Laura glanced up at him. Sam could see the fear in her eyes, and he suddenly knew that this wasn’t the stomach flu; this was something different.

 

There had been a pregnancy scare with Jess; Sam could still remember sitting next to her on the bed in her dorm room, watching the stick breathlessly, waiting for the blue lines to appear. The condom had broken that time, and Jess had started using birth control after that, wanting to prevent scares like that in the future.

 

Sam would be lying if he said he hadn’t ever thought about the differences in his life if the test had been positive, if Jess had been pregnant. Would he still have gone with Dean when he’d first shown up in their apartment? If the baby had lived and Jess had died, would Sam have finished school and refused to start hunting? Would Dean have helped?

 

Not that he thought about it often, but there were moments when Sam wondered. Now, he stared into Laura’s dark eyes and thought about what this meant. He wasn’t in love with her, not like he’d been in love with Jess, and she seemed to view him as no more than a way out.

 

But that didn’t mean they couldn’t be more, that they couldn’t make this work.

 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I wanted to show you—I can still work. This is not your problem.”

 

“Of course it’s my problem!” he exclaimed. “Unless—is there someone else?”

 

“No, only you,” Laura hastened to assure him, leaning back against the bathtub. “Only you, Sam. I just—I didn’t want you to think that I cannot help.”

 

Sam was overcome with the desire to protect her, to take care of her. Maybe he didn’t love her, but he _liked_ her. She was a sweet girl, and she deserved better than him, but Sam was the only support she had.

 

“It’s my baby, too,” he finally said. “I’ll take care of you and the baby. Don’t worry about that.”

 

“You do not love me,” she observed quietly.

 

Sam took a deep breath. “Does that really matter?”

 

“Oh, Sam.” She began crying softly, and Sam pulled her into his lap, feeling helpless. All he could do was hold her close and whisper reassurances in her ear, promises to take care of her no matter what.

 

The situation was not ideal, and Sam never would have chosen to bring a child into this world, but the choice had been made. They didn’t have the money for an abortion, and Sam knew without asking that Laura wouldn’t have wanted one even if they did. She had tried so hard to show him that her pregnancy wouldn’t slow her down.

 

She’d been working double shifts, for fuck’s sake, just to prove that she wouldn’t be a burden on Sam.

 

“We’ll make it work,” he said over and over again. “I’ll take care of you.”

 

It was an easier promise to make than Sam would have thought; he knew that Dean would have done the same, and in some small way, making that promise kept Dean’s memory close.

 

~~~~~

 

Sam woke slowly, almost painfully. He’d been picking up extra shifts when he could, knowing that Laura wouldn’t be able to work for a while after the baby came, and wanting to create as much of a cushion as possible. He’d worked doubles for the last few days, and he was bone-weary, even though he had another full day ahead of him.

 

Laura had been working long hours, too, for much the same reason, and Sam was surprised to find her gone when he pushed himself to a sitting position. “Laura!” he called. “You okay?”

 

There was no answer, and Sam frowned, heading to the bathroom and cursing when he found it empty. He headed to the kitchen next, finding her on the floor, unconscious. “Laura!”

 

Sam knelt down next to her, shaking her thin shoulder and trying to rouse her. She was pale and non-responsive, and Sam pulled her into his arms, carrying her back to the bedroom. He grabbed a washcloth from the bathroom and sponged her face with the cool cloth, glancing at the clock. They couldn’t afford for him to lose his job at this point; if he had to take her to the doctor, he would, but missing work could mean the loss of his income.

 

“Laura,” Sam murmured. “Laura, come on. Wake up.”

 

Her eyes fluttered open. “Where—” She looked around and pushed herself to a sitting position. “I have to get to work.”

 

“You need to rest,” Sam insisted. “You’ve been working too hard as it is. I’ll call your boss and tell him you’re sick.”

 

Laura’s hand went over the small baby bump. “I can’t be sick.”

 

“He’ll understand one day,” Sam insisted. “I’ll tell him you have the stomach flu. He doesn’t have to know about the baby yet.”

 

Laura hesitated, and then nodded. “Yes, but you have to leave now. You have to go to work.”

 

“I’ll go, but promise me you’ll call the warehouse if you have any problems,” Sam said. “Please.”

 

“I promise. Go.”

 

Sam went, but the worry followed him the entire day. Laura was twenty weeks along—they’d had three months to plan, three months for Sam to become cautiously excited by the idea of a baby.

 

Three months for him to try harder to get to know the mother of his child, to talk to her, to learn a little Spanish, and to teach her more English.

 

Even when he’d been exhausted after work, even when all he’d wanted was to collapse on their bed and sleep until the beginning of the next shift, Sam had tried.

 

Maybe, he’d thought, maybe if he tried hard enough, he’d make up for all the shitty things he’d done. Maybe he’d make up for not going with Dean, or visiting Bobby, or letting out Lucifer. Maybe, if he raised his child right and took care of Laura, he’d find redemption.

 

Later, he would think that Laura’s life meant too much to him. Whenever he wanted something too badly, it never worked out.

 

Sam raced home after his shift, wanting to check on Laura and make sure that she was okay, and he found her sleeping. She was still paler than usual, but he could see her chest rising and falling, the pulse fluttering under the thin skin of her neck. He lay down next to her and focused on counting her breaths until he fell into sleep.

 

~~~~~

 

Sam tried to talk Laura into staying home the next day, but she was insistent. “I cannot lose my job.”

 

“But if you get sick—you could hurt yourself or the baby.” Sam grabbed her hands. “Please, Laura.”

 

“I am fine. My mother worked in the cantina until she had me and my sisters,” Laura said with a smile. “I can do the same.”

 

“Call me at the warehouse if you need _anything_,” Sam said, giving her hands a shake for emphasis. “Promise me.”

 

“I promise.”

 

Sam pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Okay. I’ll see you tonight.”

 

Not even the mind-numbing work was enough to chase the worry away. Sam couldn’t help but feel that they were missing something, that maybe something was wrong. Laura kept telling him that she was fine, that the nausea and dizziness were normal, and Sam hadn’t been around so many pregnant women that he could argue.

 

But she was too pale, she hadn’t gained much weight, and Sam had begun to fear that something was wrong.

 

They couldn’t afford a doctor right now, so Sam would have to take Laura’s word for it.

 

He was relieved to find the windows open, the faded curtains fluttering in the breeze, which meant that Laura hadn’t worked a double again.

 

“Laura!” Sam called. “Hey! Are you home?”

 

She didn’t respond, and Sam poked his head into the kitchen, only to find it empty. He began to call out again, but realized that she might be sleeping. Sam slipped off his boots and tip-toed into the bedroom, worry renewed when he didn’t see Laura anywhere.

 

“Laura?”

 

A soft whimper came from the bathroom, and Sam had crossed the room and stepped into the bathroom in two long strides.

 

Laura sprawled on the floor, half-curled up, her arms over her abdomen. Sam breathed out a curse when he saw the pool of blood that had formed underneath her, and the blood soaking her skirt.

 

“How long have you been here?”

 

“I could not call.” Her words were faint, and Sam knelt down next to her, putting a hand to her clammy forehead.

 

Sam’s mind was racing as he calculated the blood loss, her pallor, the cold sweat and shivers that spoke of shock. If it had been a gunshot or a knife wound or something supernatural, Sam would have known how to give first aid. He could have put pressure on the wound, and stitched her up, and done the things he would have for his dad or Dean.

 

He didn’t know how to stop the bleeding this time; he didn’t know what the fuck he was supposed to do.

 

“I have to get help,” Sam said, feeling helpless and hating it. “One of the neighbors probably has a phone I can use. I have to go. Just—hang on.”

 

“No,” Laura protested, tugging on his hand weakly. “Don’t leave me.”

 

“I have to.” Sam pulled away, hating himself for it, even though he knew there wasn’t another option. They couldn’t afford a phone, and so they didn’t have one. Now, he regretted not finding the money to pay for one. If they’d had a phone, Laura wouldn’t have lain there for hours in a pool of her own blood.

 

They were the only ones living on the third floor, so Sam ran downstairs and knocked on the first door he came to. When there wasn’t a response, he went to the next door, praying to a God he no longer believed in that someone would help.

 

The third time was the charm. The woman who cracked the door had a robe pulled tightly around her, and he could see the fear in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” Sam blurted out. “But my—my wife is having a miscarriage. Please, do you have a phone I could use? Please.”

 

“I’ll call,” she replied. “You’re in 3C, aren’t you?”

 

He nodded. “I—”

 

“You go up and stay with her,” she said. “Go on. I’ll get them here.”

 

Sam felt a wave of relief. “Thank you so much. Thank you.” He raced back up the stairs, kneeling next to Laura again. She was unconscious now, and Sam hesitated only a moment before moving her so that she was leaning against him, not caring that his jeans were getting bloody.

 

The toilet seat was in his direct line of sight, and Sam shuddered as he saw the blood there, too, and inside the toilet. With a shaky hand, Sam put the lid down, not wanting to look inside.

 

He shook Laura slightly, trying to get her to speak to him, but she didn’t move. “Come on, Laura,” he murmured. “Open your eyes. You have to fight for me. You have to be okay. Please be okay.”

 

She didn’t respond. Sam took a deep, shuddering breath. “I wanted us to be a family, you know. I thought I could make up for leaving Dean, you know? I thought we could make it work. I wanted to make it work.”

 

Laura twitched, and Sam felt hope stir, even though she didn’t regain consciousness. “Come on. I promise I’ll take care of you. I swear it. Just keep fighting.”

 

He kept talking, even as she grew colder. And when the ambulance arrived, and the emergency personnel came up, Sam realized that he’d been crying without knowing it.

 

~~~~~

 

Sam packed his duffel bag and stole a car the next day. He had no plans, and no place to go. He hadn’t been in love with Laura, but he might have grown to love her in time, given enough time. He would have taken care of her, and their child.

 

A girl—that’s what the doctor had told him. They would have had a daughter if Laura had survived, if Sam had taken care of her.

 

He couldn’t help but think that this was his punishment for leaving Dean, for turning his back on his family. Laura had died because she’d taken a chance on him—just like Jess had, just like every other person Sam had ever loved.

 

All he could do was to leave town, keep on moving, and survive. Sam would probably have eaten a bullet if he’d had a prayer of getting to heaven, but he didn’t. All he could do was to survive.

 

As he drove out of Phoenix in the stolen car, Sam promised himself that he wouldn’t form any more attachments. Not now, not ever.

 

He’d lost any chance he had at having a family when he’d turned his back on Dean, so it only served him right.


	20. Rural South Dakota, Fall 2016

Sam could feel the faint chill in the air that signaled the approach of fall, but it was still warm enough that he’d stripped off his shirt to chop wood. Howl did most of his heating with a wood-burning stove, and Sam had been spending long hours building up the stockpile for the winter.

 

It gave him a legitimate excuse not to be at Dean’s place, and Sam couldn’t help but remember back when he was in high school. He’d found every reason to stay away from whatever shitty motel or apartment they were living in at the time—study groups, school projects, time at the library. Anything to get away from his dad and Dean.

 

Sam paused to catch his breath, and to wipe his face with his t-shirt. He’d tied his hair back with a bandana, trying to keep sweat from stinging his eye, and he was well aware that he looked like a pirate. He’d decided that it didn’t matter, since the only person around to see him was Howl, and he didn’t give a rat’s ass what Sam was wearing.

 

The whine of a motorbike motor reached his ears, and Sam watched as the small cloud of dust grew closer. He recognized Ben, even from this distance, and sighed. The only problem with staying away from Dean was that he ended up staying away from his nephew, too.

 

Ben pulled up a few feet away from Sam, sliding to a stop with a spray of gravel in an act of showing off that Sam took as an indication that Ben was actually a teenager.

 

“Nice moves,” Sam called.

 

Ben grinned. “Sometimes I’ll go out into the hills and just race. Mary likes to go, too.”

 

Sam felt his eyebrows go up. “Mary?”

 

“You wouldn’t think it, but she can keep up with me for pretty much everything.” Ben leaned back on the bike. “Cas wanted me to ask if you were going to be home for dinner.”

 

Home, Sam thought. If only it was.

 

“Probably,” he said instead. “I’m nearly done here.”

 

“I’ll help,” Ben replied. “You’ll get done faster that way.”

 

Sam couldn’t think of a gracious way to refuse, so he nodded and picked up the ax again, focusing on the heft of the ax, rather than Ben carrying armloads of wood to stack near the house.

 

Ben was right; they were going to finish twice as fast with his help, and Sam wouldn’t have an excuse not to eat dinner with Dean and his family.

 

He’d seen too much of Dean and Cas and the kids to think of Dean’s family as perfect, but Sam figured what Dean had was about as good as it got, even if neither of them had ever known what a normal life would look like.

 

By the time Sam had made it through the logs that needed splitting, Ben had caught up with him, stacking the wood in a neat pile against the side of Howl’s house, near the back door.

 

“Where’s Mr. Howl?” Ben asked as they finished putting the wood and tools away together.

 

“He went to town,” Sam replied. “We just need to put some feed out for the horses, then we can take off.”

 

Putting the feed out took no time at all, and then Sam climbed on the bike he’d been using and followed Ben back to Dean’s. The chill in the air was more obvious while they rode, and although Sam had put his t-shirt back on, with a flannel shirt over it, he was still cold by the time they pulled the bikes into the barn.

 

It took some effort for Sam to remember to thank Ben for his help, and Ben shrugged it off. “It’s cool, Uncle Sam. You’ve been working really hard lately.”

 

“Yeah,” Sam managed.

 

“I know Howl needs a lot of help at his place,” Ben continued blithely, clearly not sensing Sam’s discomfort. “I would have asked for the job, but Dad needs me around here.”

 

“You’re right, he does,” Sam agreed, forcing a smile. “I doubt Dean could do without you, Ben.”

 

Ben gave him a bright, quick grin as they entered the hallway. “Maybe if you keep telling him that, he’ll give me a raise.”

 

“You can get a raise when I do!” Dean’s voice floated out from what Cas liked to call the study, even though most of the kids got their studying done in the kitchen, at the big table. “You two have time to wash up before dinner.”

 

Sam felt the quick flare of annoyance at Dean treating him like one of his kids, then he stifled it.

 

Hell, Sam knew half of his reactions to Dean had to do with twenty-five years of history, of the natural resentment a younger sibling felt for an older one. It had to do with Sam never getting what he wanted, and Dean having all of _this_—all of the things that Sam had once believed he’d have.

 

In the end, it had nothing to do with Dean, but that didn’t stop Sam from snapping at him, or biting Dean’s head off when he tried to help, or after he read Sam the riot act for not waiting to chase down a werewolf.

 

Knowing that much was a big part of why Sam was avoiding the house and Dean and everything else. He wanted some space to clear his head.

 

Ben let him have first shower, and Sam moved quickly, sluicing off sweat and grime, grateful for the chance to get clean. By the time he emerged, wearing clean clothes and with his hair still damp, Sam felt marginally more human, and as though he might not bite Dean’s head off for looking at him sideways.

 

When Sam entered the kitchen, he found Cas at the stove. Cas was oddly comfortable with domestic chores, something Sam thought strange.

 

Then again, Cas’ entire being seemed wrapped up in taking care of Dean, and cooking was part of that, so maybe it made sense.

 

“We haven’t seen you in a while,” Cas said mildly.

 

Sam hovered uncertainly near the table. “Do you need me to do anything?”

 

The look Cas threw over his shoulder told Sam that his evasion had been noted, but all Cas said was, “You can set the table. We’re having chili tonight.”

 

“Sounds good,” Sam said. “There’s a bite in the air.”

 

“Fall is here.” Cas cracked the oven to peer inside, then turned to face Sam. “You won’t be able to put off your decision for much longer.”

 

Sam frowned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He wasn’t playing dumb; Sam really didn’t know what Cas meant.

 

“You haven’t yet decided whether you’re staying.” Cas leaned back against the counter. “Winter comes early, and traveling is difficult.”

 

Sam shrugged. “Why? Do you want me to leave?”

 

“Sam, you’re welcome to stay.”

 

Sam looked down at his hands, at the newly formed calluses, and the dirt ingrained under his nails that wouldn’t come out no matter how hard he scrubbed. In many ways, it would be easier if he left; he knew what life on the road was like, whereas he hadn’t quite figured out what it meant to stay in one place, to have a family again.

 

“I know,” he finally replied. “I just…don’t know what to do about it.”

 

“It?”

 

Sam hesitated, wondering if he should really be talking to Cas about this. “With Dean—”

 

He stopped when Mary skipped into the room, followed closely by Henry and Casey. Mary signed something; Sam had learned some sign language, but he usually caught about one word in every three.

 

“Dinner is nearly done,” Cas replied. “Grab your bowls. Sam, would you get the cheese and crackers out?”

 

Sam did so, grateful for the reprieve. He didn’t want to talk about it right now, and so he let the sounds of the kids’ chatter wash over him. From what he could tell, they were talking about the schoolwork Cas had assigned, and the books they were reading.

 

By the time Dean and Ben joined them, the other kids were seated around the table, digging into full bowls with enthusiasm.

 

“I got the recipe from Bobby,” Cas said quietly from Sam’s right.

 

Sam grimaced, torn between nostalgia and grief. “I think yours might be better.”

 

Cas’ lips quirked in a half-smile that held an edge of wistfulness. “I’ve had a lot of practice feeding a crowd.”

 

That was all he said, but Sam couldn’t help but remember all the times Bobby had fed them, had looked after them, and he couldn’t quite stifle the regret that filled him at the thought of never having said goodbye.

 

~~~~~

 

As the days grew shorter, and the nights colder, everyone tended to gather in the living room, reading or watching one of the few DVDs they owned. They had a TV, but no cable—there wasn’t any in this area of the country—and if the DVD player whirred loudly, it hadn’t quit on them yet.

 

Dean sprawled in the recliner, bad leg propped up and a bag of ice on his knee. He was still feeling the werewolf hunt they’d been on a couple of weeks before, and he hated to think that it was a mark of his age.

 

_The Princess Bride_ played in the background. The younger kids—Henry, Casey, and Ryan—had sprawled out on the floor, close together like a pack of puppies. Scout slept in between Henry and Casey, a leg draped over both of them in a way that looked uncomfortable to Dean. Ben and Mary sat close together on the couch, Mary’s head on Ben’s shoulder, her eyes half-lidded and sleepy. Cas sat on the other end, a sleeping Cora in his lap.

 

And then there was Sam, who dozed in a chair in the corner of the room, apart from the action. Dean knew he’d been working hard at Howl’s, but he suspected that Sam had been avoiding him, too.

 

Inigo Montoya was announcing his intention to kill the six-fingered man, and Dean grinned as Casey gasped during the fight scene. She hadn’t seen it before, and it was obvious that she was entranced.

 

Henry had been the one to suggest the movie after Casey had admitted that she hadn’t even heard of the movie, and Dean figured it was a way to get in family time without requiring a lot of conversation. He didn’t think Sam would have been up for that.

 

He glanced over at Cas, and caught Cas staring at him, a fond smile on his lips. Dean raised his eyebrows, used to communicating with only a look and a wink and a nod.

 

Cas grinned, showing teeth, and Dean knew his offer had been noted and accepted.

 

Dean turned his attention back to the movie. Buttercup was throwing herself on Westley now, and Dean watched with a bemused smirk. Henry, Ryan and Casey made gagging noises as they kissed, and Dean chuckled, hearing Cas do the same.

 

Once the credits were rolling, Dean pushed himself out of the chair, wincing when the ice pack fell to the floor. “I’ve got it Papa Dean,” Ryan said, moving quickly to pick it up.

 

“Thanks, Ryan. Think you can get yourself ready for bed? Cas and I will be up to tuck you in soon.”

 

Ryan nodded. He was still of an age that he could be easily bribed into getting ready for bed with the acknowledgement that he didn’t need help.

 

Henry started begging for more time, and Casey followed his lead. They’d become thick as thieves over the last few weeks, something Dean was grateful for. It meant that Casey was actually starting to settle in, and while Dean knew better than to think that was the end of any problems they’d have with her, it would ease things a bit.

 

Dean put up with their whining for a few minutes, then ordered them upstairs, using the same voice his dad had when he’d meant business. He’d found it worked just as well on his kids as it had on him.

 

Once the kids were upstairs, Cas carrying Cora on his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, Dean leaned over Sam. “Hey, Sam.”

 

Sam snorted, but didn’t wake up.

 

“Sam.” Dean waited, but when he didn’t get a response, he said, “Hey, if you sleep like that, you’re going to hate yourself in the morning.”

 

Sam still didn’t stir, and Dean reached out, putting his hand on Sam’s shoulder, intending to shake him awake, but Sam sat upright abruptly. He grabbed Dean’s wrist, twisting hard and taking Dean down to the floor, pinning him before Dean could even think of a defense.

 

He was getting soft, Dean thought to himself.

 

“Sam…”

 

“Dean.” Sam’s good eye blinked at him, and Sam sat back on the floor with a hard thump. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t…did I hurt you?”

 

“No,” Dean gasped. “Knocked the wind out of me is all.”

 

Sam rubbed his eye. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t be,” Dean replied. “I know what it’s like to wake up on edge, Sammy.”

 

“Yeah.” Sam stared at him, his expression uncertain, and so very young, that Dean couldn’t help reach out to him, clasping Sam’s shoulder. He felt the sting when Sam shifted away, shrugging off his hand and scrambling to his feet. “I should get to bed. I have another early day tomorrow.”

 

Sam took off, not looking back, and Dean rose to his feet more slowly, turning the lights off and climbing the stairs with creaking joints. He poked his head into the boys’ room, finding Henry and Ryan already underneath the covers in their bunk beds.

 

“’Night, boys,” Dean said, coming over to press a hand against Henry’s shoulder where he lay in the top bunk. He knelt next to Ryan’s bed, wincing as his knee popped loudly. He tucked the blankets up around Ryan’s shoulders just the way he liked.

 

“’Night, Papa Dean,” Ryan whispered loudly.

 

Dean pressed his lips to Ryan’s forehead. “Goodnight, son. Sleep well.”

 

“’Night,” Henry murmured from his bunk, already half-asleep.

 

Dean slipped out of the bedroom and stuck his head in the girls’ room next. Cora and Casey were asleep already, and Dean closed the door, careful not to make the hinges squeak. Ben, Sam, and Mary would be out in their room in the barn by now, and Dean deliberately chose not to look out the window at the end of the hall to see if a light still burned.

 

Ben was old enough to have some independence, and so was Mary—and Sam clearly didn’t want Dean looking after him.

 

Cas was stretched out on the bed when Dean entered, wearing a t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants. Dean thought it was the pair Maryanne had made last Christmas; she always made new pajamas for Dean and Cas and each of the kids—pants for the guys, nightgowns for the girls. She always said that everybody ought to have something new to wear on Christmas morning, and she made sure that always happened.

 

The first couple of years, nearly every present under the tree had been handmade, by him or Cas, or one of the folks in town who had taken an interest in the kids.

 

“What are you thinking about?” Cas asked, interrupting Dean’s thoughts as he stood in the doorway.

 

Dean entered the room, closing the door softly behind him. “Christmas. We’ll need to take a trip into the city soon.”

 

“Maybe Sam will stay with the kids,” Cas suggested.

 

“I don’t know if Sam’s going to be around that long.” Dean pulled his t-shirt off over his head and dropped in on the floor, in the pile with the rest of the laundry they hadn’t gotten around to yet.

 

Cas propped himself up on one elbow. “What makes you say that, Dean?”

 

“I had to wake Sam up,” Dean said slowly, flopping down on the bed in nothing but his boxers, wincing as the mattress squeaked under him. “He had me pinned to the floor in no time at all.”

 

“Does that surprise you?”

 

“I wasn’t expecting it,” Dean said quickly, knowing that he sounded defensive.

 

Cas raised his eyebrows. “Dean.”

 

“No, it doesn’t surprise me,” he admitted. “Sam’s been jumpy since he got here, and I know he’s been through a rough time. You can see it on his face.”

 

“Yes, you can,” Cas agreed. “What makes you think Sam won’t be around for Christmas?”

 

Dean sighed. “When I tried to touch him, Sam wouldn’t let me. He won’t let me do anything for him, Cas. It’s not—I stopped believing that Sam would show up and we would go back to how it had been a long time ago. But I never thought that Sam would stop being my brother.”

 

“He will always be your brother.” Cas’ hand rested on his breastbone, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on Dean’s chest. “That much, at least, will always be true.”

 

“I figured Sam would probably leave eventually,” Dean admitted. “He always leaves. But I know that; I expected that. The kids don’t.”

 

Cas nuzzled Dean’s neck. “Ben has grown very attached to him.”

 

“I don’t want my kid hurt.”

 

“Ben has to learn that people disappoint at some point.”

 

“But I don’t want him to learn that lesson with family.”

 

Cas’ clever tongue traced the outside of his ear, and Dean shivered. Even though his desire had pretty much been killed by Sam’s reaction earlier, he felt himself begin to respond.

 

“You worry too much.”

 

“You worry, too,” Dean responded, not caring that he sounded about twelve years old.

 

Cas pulled back, grinning at him. “I do, but I know when to stop worrying.”

 

Dean let Cas kiss him, sweet and slow. “You’re an excellent distraction.”

 

“So are you,” Cas murmured in his ear, his mouth blazing a trail down Dean’s neck, ghosting over his right nipple, down Dean’s stomach. Cas hummed happily as he shoved Dean’s boxers down, and Dean let his hips arch up.

 

For one long moment, he allowed himself to forget everything except Cas’ mouth, the moist heat of it, the way his orgasm caused his hips to jerk. Dean let himself go with Cas in the way he couldn’t with anyone else, anywhere else, and he was grateful for it.

 

Cas swallowed him down, then sat up, jerking himself off quickly and efficiently, until he’d come over his own hand.

 

“I would have done that,” Dean objected, his words slurred.

 

“Next time,” Cas promised. “Sleep now, Dean.”

 

“Don’t have any choice, do I?” Dean murmured, and slipped into sleep.

 

~~~~~

 

Even though Sam would have preferred to work, Howl had given him the day off, with orders not to show his face. “Tomorrow is Sunday,” Howl had said, his voice uncharacteristically stern. “It’s a day of rest, and my woodpile is stocked. Spend some time with your brother.”

 

So, Sam didn’t have a reason to be anywhere else, or do anything else. He could leave, but that would make his avoidance of Dean all the more obvious.

 

He climbed down from the loft, and wandered out of the barn, blinking under the early afternoon sun. Sam knew that Cas had been right; he didn’t have much time to decide what he was going to do, and whether he was going to stay.

 

Sam had to admit that he liked it here; life had been both easier and harder on the road. Easier, because he’d known what to expect, and he’d expected everyone and everything to disappoint him. Here, Sam had people who depended upon him, family that taxed his understanding and patience.

 

“Sam!” Ben trotted across the yard towards him. “You want to go fishing?”

 

“I thought that was Dean’s thing,” Sam replied.

 

Ben grinned. “Nah, it’s a Sunday thing. It’s actually pretty warm today, and this weather won’t last much longer. This might be our last chance.”

 

Sam hesitated, thinking about how it might be their last chance in more ways than one. “Yeah, okay. Let’s get going.”

 

The creek was running high and fast from all the rain they’d been having, and Sam felt a tug on his line as soon as he’d cast. “Hey!” Sam called. “I got a bite!”

 

“Pull it in!” Ben laughed. “Pull it in!”

 

It had been so long since Sam had been fishing, he’d forgotten the excitement that rose up at the tug on his line. He grinned broadly as he pulled in a trout nearly a foot long.

 

“Put it on the line,” Ben said, holding up a long, thick metal needle attached to a length of twine.  “We’ll keep what we catch and leave them in the water. They’ll be fresher that way.”

 

Sam got the trout off the hook with some difficulty and handed it to Ben, who expertly threaded the twine through its gill and put it back in the water.

 

Ben caught the next one, and Sam caught a second. By the time they were done, they had half a dozen trout on the line, and Ben had a smug grin on his face. “Not even Henry has caught so many in one day,” Ben crowed.

 

“You’re not going to rub it in, are you?” Sam asked.

 

Ben laughed. “You bet I will. Henry’s always talking about how good a fisherman he is, and this just proves that he’s not the best.”

 

Sam grinned. “Well, I’m happy to help out.”

 

“I’m really glad you came, Uncle Sam.” Sam could see the sincerity in Ben’s statement, in the smile on his lips and the light in his eyes. It was so easy to be with Ben; there was so little history there, good or bad.

 

If he stayed, Sam realized, it would be for Ben, not Dean, and the idea scared him more than he wanted to admit. He remembered what had happened the last time someone had depended on him.

 

“It’s good to be here,” Sam replied.

 

When they arrived at the house, no one was around. Ben headed around the back. “Come on. We’ll clean the fish and put them in the fridge.”

 

Sam helped Ben clean the fish, one after another, and they were done in no time. “I think I’ll take a shower while nobody is here,” Ben said with a grin.

 

“Go on,” Sam replied. “Might as well enjoy the privacy while you can.”

 

When Sam heard the shower start up, he settled onto the couch, picking up a copy of _Slaughterhouse 5_ someone had left lying around. He flipped open the front cover and saw Dean’s name scrawled inside.

 

It had been a long time since Sam had read for pleasure, even though he’d always enjoyed it. Back when he was a kid, books had provided an escape, a window into other worlds, into normal families and ordinary lives.

 

He was a couple of chapters in when the front door opened and closed, and Dean’s voice called out, “Ben!”

 

“He’s in the shower.” Sam rose, meeting Dean in the hallway. “At least, he was.”

 

“Where were you guys?” Dean asked, striving for nonchalance and not quite making it. “I saw Ben’s note, but it didn’t say much.”

 

“We went fishing,” Sam replied. “I thought that was okay.”

 

Dean shrugged and gave him a crooked smile. “It is. I just wondered is all.”

 

Sam realized it was the first time they’d had time alone since the werewolf. “Sorry. I should have been—I should have made sure Ben was more clear.”

 

“About Ben…” Dean began.

 

“What about him?” Sam hated how defensive he sounded, even though he knew they hadn’t done anything wrong.

 

Dean rubbed the back of his head. “Ben’s grown pretty attached to you. I think you know that.”

 

“I know, Dean. I’m not going to hurt your son.”

 

Dean looked him in the eye. “You say that, but I don’t think you realize how you leaving is going to affect him.”

 

Sam felt himself bristle. “So, what? You want me to leave now?”

 

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Dean shot back. “But I know you. You leave. It’s just what you do.”

 

Sam straightened, stung by the assessment, maybe especially because it was true from Dean’s point of view. And although Dean was right from the standpoint that Sam had thought about leaving, he didn’t want to admit it. “I’ve got a job here. I like your kids. What the fuck gives you the idea that I’m going to leave?”

 

“Because I can’t fucking count on you, Sammy!” Dean shot back, his voice rising. “Cas went to Norman and looked for you. We waited for you at Bobby’s. Every time I looked out the window, I looked for you. I figured it was only a matter of time before you showed up, because I knew—I _knew_—that if you were still alive, you’d go to Bobby’s. I _knew_ I could trust you to look after Ben.” Dean snorted. “Except, you know, I couldn’t trust you to even check in with the closest thing to family we had.”

 

Sam knew he had no defense to make, no real excuse, but he couldn’t help trying to justify his decision. “I knew you’d leave Ben with Bobby, and I was in no shape to take care of a kid. You don’t understand.”

 

“You know what I don’t understand?” Dean demanded. “I don’t understand why it is that Cas had to take on so much. He fucking took care of me while my leg healed, and he took care of Ben and Bobby, too.”

 

Sam laughed bitterly. “Yeah, Dean. You got a real partner when you got rid of me. I get it.”

 

“I don’t think you do, and _you_ were the one who left.”

 

“I did what I thought was right!” Sam shot back.

 

Dean got right up in Sam’s face. “And what about later? When you thought I was dead? You knew I was going to leave Ben with Bobby.”

 

“Fuck you, Dean,” Sam yelled. “You don’t know what I’ve been doing, or what I’ve been through.”

 

Dean rocked back on his heels. “You know what? You’re right. I don’t know, because you haven’t fucking talked to me. You’ve been avoiding me since you got here.”

 

“I’ve been avoiding _you_?” Sam demanded. “What about you? Playing great lord of the manor, like some fucking king. You’ve got everything. What the fuck do you need me for, anyway? What the fuck did you ever need me for?”

 

For a moment, Sam thought Dean would take a swing. His face twisted with a rage so bright, Sam was nearly blinded, and he watched as Dean’s fists clenched, and he took a step back, as though to take himself out of range.

 

“I needed you,” Dean said softly. “We nearly starved to death that first winter, Cas and me. We were scraping the bottom of the barrel, because I could barely walk across the room, and Cas was the only able-bodied person around. I kept waiting for you to show up. I knew if you were there, we’d be able to make it, but guess what? We made it without you. Cas had to take on the fucking weight of the world, and Ben lost half his childhood helping me take care of the family, but we made it.”

 

 Sam felt the words like blows, hearing each one, and yet unable to push past the anger that burned hotly. Maybe Dean had struggled, but he remembered Laura, bleeding out on the bathroom floor of their dingy apartment. He remembered the hope that had died that day, and the long, barren years that followed.

 

And now—now, he felt it all spiraling out of control, and all he could see was Dean, who had _everything_. Even if Sam walked away, Dean would still have everything.

 

“You don’t get it,” Sam said, unable to get another word out around the tight ball lodged in his throat.

 

“No, you’re right. I don’t. Because I look after my family, no matter what.”

 

Sam swung before he could think better of it, and the blow laid Dean out on the floor, while Sam looked down on him, his good eye burning with unshed tears. “You’re right,” Sam barked out. “You’re right. I fucked up. I walked away from you, but I _paid_ for it. You’ve got this perfect life here. You’ve got _everything_—a partner, kids, a home—and I got a dead girlfriend and a dead baby.”

 

It was the first time he’d ever spoken the words out loud, the first time Sam had admitted that he’d wanted that child, wanted the possibility of it to come to fruition.

 

The old grief rose up, and Sam shook his head. “Fuck it, Dean. You don’t need me. You never did.”

 

Sam walked out, walked past Dean and out the front door, ignoring the clamoring of the kids behind the house, ignoring Cas as he walked past him towards the barn.

 

He could walk away now, leave and never come back, forget he had a brother, forget he’d ever had a family. Sam could forget that he’d believed he could find a home here, and that he’d come so close to making a life.

 

He could pack up and walk away. As Dean had said, he was good at that.


	21. Rural South Dakota, Mid-Summer 2013

Dean leaned back in his seat, watching as Cas flipped the grilled sandwiches on Bobby’s stove. He could hear Henry and Ben shouting out back, probably on the tire swing Dean had hung the last time they were here.

 

“Henry seems like a good kid,” Bobby said.

 

Dean smiled. “He is. He fits in with the other kids just fine.”

 

Bobby nodded. “It’s good, what you’re doing for that boy. I’m proud of you.”

 

“Bobby…” Dean stared at the older man. Bobby had lost weight since the last time they’d visited, and he looked older, more tired. Dean got the feeling that Bobby was readying them for the inevitable, final end. “Don’t say things like that.”

 

“I mean it. There’s nothing wrong with saying it.” Bobby picked up his bottle of beer and took a deep draught. Dean had no idea where he’d managed to dig up a cold six-pack, but it had been so long, Dean wasn’t going to ask. “How are those sandwiches coming?”

 

“I think it’ll be another minute,” Cas replied, looking over his shoulder.

 

Dean met Cas’ eyes, and he rose. “Let me call the kids in, then.”

 

Dean yelled out the back, calling the kids in for dinner. “Get washed up,” he instructed as they tumbled into the room, flushed with exertion and the warm humidity of the summer afternoon. “Thoroughly, please.”

 

They crowded around the small kitchen table, snagging the chair from Bobby’s study for Henry, who ate sitting on his knees. Conversation pretty much stopped; the kids focused on inhaling their sandwiches and the apple slices in the middle of the table.

 

“Is there dessert?” Henry asked eagerly, licking his fingers free.

 

Dean frowned at him.

 

“Please?” Henry added hopefully.

 

“There might be ice cream in the freezer,” Bobby said gruffly. “_If_ the kitchen gets clean, and your dads don’t have to do it.”

 

The kids began clearing the table with alacrity, and Dean decided to keep that particular bribe in mind.

 

Dean followed Bobby out to the study and sprawled on the couch, Cas settling down next to him, their shoulders just touching. “So, how’ve you been, Bobby?”

 

“Don’t give me that look, boy,” Bobby warned. “I’m fine.”

 

Dean didn’t buy it, but he wasn’t going to sit there and argue with Bobby either. “Well, you look great.”

 

“You’re a rotten liar,” Bobby shot back. “What about you two? Still doing okay?”

 

Dean shrugged. “About the same. We raise chickens and hunt. I fix cars and Cas prays over the sick. It’s a life.”

 

“And your leg?”

 

Dean shrugged off Bobby’s concern. “It’s stiff, but I can’t complain, since it’s still attached.”

 

Bobby winced. “True enough. Well, I’m glad you could come now.”

 

Dean didn’t miss the emphasis the final word, and he might have pressed for more information, but the kids came running into the room, trying for sedate and failing miserably.

 

Cas rose to help Bobby pull the ice cream out of the freezer, giving Dean’s shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. Dean’s heart stuttered in his chest as he read the emotion behind the gesture.

 

He’d learned to respect Cas’ instincts, especially when it came to the sick and dying. Cas just seemed to have a sixth sense for who would recover and who wouldn’t.

 

Dean didn’t like to think that Cas would be right about this one, too, though.

 

~~~~~

 

The kids were outside, thrilled to be sleeping in a tent, and free to have the run of the property after dark. Dean could just make out their flashlights as they whispered and giggled their way out into the salvage yard.

 

He had to trust that Ben and Mary wouldn’t let Henry climb on the junkers in the dark; the kids knew the rules, and they were pretty good about following them. Part of being a kid at Uncle Bobby’s meant midnight strolls through the salvage yard, though, playing flashlight tag and hide and seek.

 

Dean had done the same with Sam, and the warm summer breeze coming through the screen brought back a hundred memories of long, hot days, and nights sneaking out of the house or motel room to lay under the stars.

 

He swallowed the sudden lump in his throat, the memories of Sam too much to bear.

 

“Dean.”

 

He remained at the window, staring out at the darkness. “Hey.”

 

“The kids are playing flashlight tag,” Cas said softly. “I made sure they had extra batteries.”

 

Dean nodded, and leaned his forehead against the window sash. “How’s Bobby?”

 

“You should ask him yourself.”

 

He snorted. “You know Bobby. He’s not going to admit that he’s sick even if he is. Just—what do you know, Cas?”

 

Cas’ hands clasped his shoulders, kneading at tight, sore muscles, and Dean leaned back into his solid chest. He felt Cas’ nose press into the back of his neck. “He’s tired, Dean.”

 

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

 

“I don’t know,” Cas finally said, his voice muffled in Dean’s back. “His health is failing, and he no longer has the same desire to fight as he once did. Before you ask, I can’t tell you how long.”

 

Dean turned to face Cas now, burying his face in Cas’ neck, wrapping his arms around Cas’ waist. Cas pulled him in close, and Dean let himself relax into it for a moment. What he had now, with Cas, meant almost as much as having Sam. He and Cas didn’t share the same history, but Dean could lean on Cas the way he’d never leaned on Sam.

 

And maybe that was Dean’s failing, not Sam’s, but it didn’t change the past, and it didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate what he had now.

 

Cas began walking backward, tugging Dean along with him, stumbling slightly over his own feet, and finally collapsing onto the bed. He pulled Dean on top of him, and they shifted around until they were both comfortably horizontal, slotted together like a couple of puzzle pieces. Dean heard a shriek of laughter, quickly stifled, from outside, but Cas pulled him in close, his mouth distracting Dean from the kids outside and his memories of the past.

 

Dean covered Cas’ body with his own, mindful of Bobby downstairs, even though the walls of the old farmhouse weren’t as thin as some of the places Dean had been.

 

Cas nipped at his neck, and Dean let his head fall back, trying not to make too much noise. “Cas…”

 

“Hush,” Cas ordered with a wicked smile. “We don’t want to disturb Bobby.”

 

“Don’t bring Bobby into this,” Dean responded, tugging Cas’ hips into his. “You’re wearing too many clothes.”

 

“So are you.”

 

After that, it was a race to see who could strip first, tossing clothing on the floor haphazardly. They tumbled back onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, sweaty and gasping and rutting against each other like a couple of teenagers.

 

For the moment, Cas was all Dean could think about—Cas and the perfect angle that would bring much needed relief.

 

It was over almost before it began, Dean coming all over Cas’ thigh, Cas coming over Dean’s hand, and Dean grabbed one of their t-shirts to clean the both of them up.

 

Cas spread out on the bed, a smug grin on his face, and Dean felt the rush of affection, the sense of _home_ he always got.

 

“Think you’re hot stuff, don’t you?” Dean asked, lying down next to Cas.

 

“So do you.” Cas shifted, propping himself up on one elbow, giving Dean that searching look that had become so familiar. “You were thinking about Sam.”

 

“There are a lot of memories here,” Dean replied. “Sam and I—we’d spend weeks at a time here sometimes, especially when we were little, and Dad had a long hunt. Bobby was the one who looked after us, and he was—he was as much of a father to me as anybody.”

 

Cas’ expression was far too knowing for Dean’s comfort. “You will always have those memories.”

 

“Doesn’t mean—” Dean paused, trying to find the words. “When Bobby goes, it’ll be like losing Sam, too. As long as Bobby is here, I figure Sam can find me. We always—we always came back here, you know?”

 

Cas nodded slowly. “I do know.”

 

Dean wanted to ask whether Cas knew if Sam was still alive, if Sam would ever come back, but he didn’t. Cas had never learned the art of lying, and Dean didn’t know that he wanted the truth.

 

Maybe it didn’t matter—or Dean wouldn’t let it matter—because Dean had learned to live without Sam.

 

So, instead, Dean tugged Cas down next to him, and he fell asleep listening to Cas breathing.

 

~~~~~

 

Dean had been trying to get Bobby alone for the last few days, but Bobby had been avoiding him, neatly turning the conversation from discussions of his health to other things, or using the kids as a distraction. Dean might have been pissed off by that tactic, but the kids were eating up the attention, and he couldn’t begrudge them the time spent with Bobby. They only got out this way once or twice a year, after all.

 

He finally had to ask Cas to take the kids into town; they all needed new shoes, and he figured it was about the only way he had half a chance to talk to Bobby alone.

 

When the house was silent, leaving Dean alone with Bobby for the first time in four days, Dean plopped himself down on the couch in the living room, watching Bobby read for a while before he said, “I’ve been thinking.”

 

Bobby kept on reading the book in his lap. “No.”

 

“Bobby—”

 

“You’re not staying with me, and I’m not going to live with you.” Bobby managed a smile, glancing up for the first time. “You know I love those kids of yours, but I like my quiet.”

 

“All the more reason for me to stay,” Dean argued, rising from the couch. “Cas can take the kids for a while, and I can stay.”

 

Bobby sighed. “I’m not dying, Dean. I’m just old.”

 

“Not that old.”

 

“Old enough.” Bobby closed the book, and Dean recognized the look on Bobby’s face—it was the one that let Dean know he couldn’t charm his way into or out of something, that Bobby would just go on being stubborn about it. “I appreciate your concern, but you’re going to go home with your family, and I’m going to stay here.”

 

“And if something happens?” Dean pressed.

 

“There’s a lady from town who comes twice a week to give me a hand, and I have friends who stop by every so often.” Bobby sat back in his chair. “There’s nothing you can do for me, son.”

 

Dean looked away. “Promise me you’ll let me know if there is.” When Bobby didn’t respond immediately, Dean met Bobby’s eyes with his own. “_Promise me_.”

 

“I promise,” Bobby said reluctantly.

 

Dean wasn’t going to get more than that, and he knew it. “You want something to drink?”

 

Bobby’s eyes reflected his relief at the change of subject, and his lips quirked up into a real smile. “Yeah. Might as well enjoy the quiet, right?”

 

Dean nodded, keeping his words deliberately casual. “Thought I might work on the cars today. The Jeep could use a tune-up, and I might as well take a look at the van while I’m at it.”

 

Bobby snorted, but he didn’t refuse the offer. “You been fixing a lot of cars in Cypress Grove?”

 

“A few,” he replied. “I’ve been working on a lot of tractors lately. They’re not too difficult to figure out.”

 

“You always were good at fixing things.” Bobby grabbed his arm as Dean passed on the way to the kitchen, halting his steps. “Thanks.”

 

Dean just nodded. “Sure. Anything for family.”

 

That much was as true as it ever was.

 

~~~~~

 

They left Bobby’s one week after they’d arrived. Dean had managed to put off their departure for a couple of days, but no more than that, and he didn’t try to talk Bobby into letting him stay again. Dean promised that they’d come out for Christmas and left it at that.

 

By pushing hard, they made it back home in half a day, giving them plenty of time to unpack and get the kids fed and cleaned up and put to bed. All three were tired from the trip; Ben was quiet and withdrawn, Mary clingy and prone to tears, and Henry was whiny.

 

Dean was relieved when they were all in bed and he could collapse next to Cas on their threadbare couch.

 

“Now I remember why we don’t go back to Bobby’s more often,” Dean muttered. “Fuck, I’m tired.”

 

Cas just grunted. He had two days worth of stubble on his chin, and the lines around his eyes and mouth seemed deeper tonight. Dean imagined he wasn’t in any better shape, although his beard had long since filled in.

 

“You want first shower?”

 

Cas cracked an eyelid. “I’ll deal with it in the morning.”

 

“You hungry?”

 

“Starving,” Cas admitted.

 

Dean rose from the couch with some difficulty. “You didn’t eat much at lunch.”

 

“I wasn’t hungry at lunch.”

 

Dean frowned. “You okay? You’re not getting sick, are you?”

 

Cas shook his head. “No. I’m just—weary.” He worked up a smile, but Dean didn’t find it reassuring. “I feel as though we’ve been on the road for three days, rather than half of one.”

 

“You and me both.”

 

Maryanne had left sandwich fixings in the fridge on one of her stopovers, and Dean started pulling them out now—thick-sliced ham, a block of cheddar, homemade mayo. He had no idea how Maryanne did it, but she made the best mayonnaise he’d ever had.

 

By the time he had a couple of hefty sandwiches and brought them out to the living room, Cas was asleep on the couch, head thrown back and snoring lightly. Dean shook his head and sat down next to him, devouring one sandwich and giving serious consideration to eating the other.

 

“Hey, Cas. Food’s ready.”

 

Cas started awake, blinking sleepily. He ate slowly while Dean watched him, enjoying the way Cas relished his meal. Maybe it was because Cas hadn’t always been human, but he seemed to enjoy the human things—food, sleep, showers, even sex—more than anyone else Dean had known.

 

Dean had teased him once for being a hedonist, and Cas had replied, “There is no sin in appreciating God’s gifts.”

 

When Cas had finished, Dean grabbed his plate. “Go to bed, Cas. I’ll be up in a minute.”

 

He’d just finished stacking plates in the sink when a pounding came on the front door. “Fuck.”

 

Dean knew that sound—it meant trouble. He moved a little quicker as the pounding started again after only a brief pause.

 

Cas beat him to the door by half a second, pulling it open before Dean could grab a weapon.

 

“What’s going on?” Cas asked, looking wide-awake now. He’d apparently been undressing for bed, because his shirt was off. Dean could see the ripple of tense muscle under tanned skin, and he had to stifle the quick surge of lust.

 

Maybe he wasn’t quite as old as he thought.

 

“We got a problem.” Howl’s weather beaten face was creased with worry, his gray hair windblown. “You know Angela Ripley?”

 

“Sure,” Dean replied for both of them. “Single mom, two kids. Lives on the edge of town and works in Hermosa. I fixed her car about six months ago.”

 

“That’s her.” Howl sighed. “She’s dead. Earnest’s wife went over to see her about an hour ago and found her body. It’s not a pretty scene, and the kids are missing.”

 

“Shit.” Dean scrubbed at his beard. “Cas—”

 

“I’ll go upstairs and get dressed, and I’ll wake Ben,” Cas said, cutting him off. “The kids will be safe enough here alone for the time being.”

 

Dean nodded. “Good thing I hadn’t taken off my boots yet.”

 

There was no time to do more than get the guns out, along with the boxes of ammunition, and start loading shotguns—one with rock salt, one with buckshot, just to cover all the bases. Ben followed Cas downstairs, eyes wide in his pale face. “Do you need any help, Dad?” he asked.

 

Dean didn’t hesitate. He handed Ben a rifle, and knelt down in front of him. “You keep the doors locked. You don’t answer the door unless it’s me, Cas, or Maryanne. Anybody else, shoot first, and ask questions later. I trust your judgment, and I need you to look after Mary and Henry.”

 

Ben nodded, his jaw set. “I can handle it.”

 

“I know you can.” Dean ruffled Ben’s hair. “Good man.”

 

Cas had tucked a shotgun under one arm, and Dean could see the pistol sticking out of the back of his waistband. Cas pulled Ben into a rough hug, then he and Dean were both out the door. Dean listened for the click of the deadbolt behind him, then hauled himself into the cab of Howl’s truck.

 

The night air was alive with sound—Dean heard the hoot of an owl before Howl fired up the old engine, and then they were bouncing down the dirt road toward town.

 

Cas sat in the middle, his thigh pressed against Dean’s, his face set and grim. Dean could feel the adrenalin that rushed through him at the prospect of a hunt, and he suspected that Cas’ tiredness had been banished, too.

 

They’d crash hard later, but for right now, they had a couple of kids to find.

 

When Howl rolled up in front of Angela’s battered little trailer, there were already two other vehicles out front. Dean recognized most of the men and women there; all of them were armed, but they milled about in an aimless way.

 

“Howl!” one of the men called as they got out of the truck. Dean couldn’t quite make out his face in the darkness. “What’s going on?”

 

“That’s what we’re going to find out.” Howl led them inside the trailer, and Dean’s gaze immediately went to Angela’s bruised face. Her head was at an unnatural angle, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out that her neck had been broken. “Anything you could tell us would be helpful,” Howl said quietly. “We’ve got nothing, and we have no idea where those kids might be.”

 

Dean had a sudden flash of wanting Sam there—Sam and his encyclopedic knowledge and giant brain, but then Cas said, “Here.”

 

He turned to see what Cas was holding up. “Looks like a hex bag.”

 

Cas nodded. “It’s not good for much, and it appears to have been made by an amateur.”

 

“So, we’re dealing with a wannabe witch?” Dean asked.

 

Cas opened the bag and emptied its contents onto the floor. “I believe it was meant to protect the person against being seen, or being caught. Unless Angela had it made for some reason, I think it’s safe to assume that the person who killed her dropped it.”

 

“Any way to tell who?” Howl asked.

 

Dean frowned. “Had she been seeing anyone lately? Or had anyone been hanging around her or the kids?”

 

Howl shook his head. “I don’t know, but we can call her employer from Maryanne’s phone, and I’ll have Earnest talk to the neighbors.”

 

Dean waited until Howl was out of the trailer to kneel down next to Angela’s broken body. She’d been pretty, he remembered. Pretty, and a little flirty, even though his relationship with Cas had been old news. She hadn’t been serious, though, and they’d both known it. Dean had fixed her rusted Pontiac and sent her on her way.

 

He couldn’t remember now if he’d even seen the kids; they might have been with the sitter at the time.

 

“Child sacrifice is a time-honored tradition to get the services of a demon, or to call upon the devil,” Cas said quietly. He’d knelt down next to Dean, and he reached out now to gently close her eyes.

 

Dean shook his head. “There’s no devil to call on these days.”

 

“Not everyone knows that.” Cas rose to his feet and offered Dean a hand up. “We’ll have to be careful. Someone who would do this is desperate.”

 

“Yeah.” Dean rubbed his eyes. “Yeah. I fucking hate witches and devil-worshippers.”

 

“As do I.”

 

They made their way outside to find the hunting party loading up. “One of the neighbors saw her hanging out with a newcomer,” Howl explained as they got back in the truck. “Jerry recognized the description. The stranger lives in the next town over, and just moved into Hermosa. He’s been hanging around Angela a lot. Jerry said she’d taken pity on him, and was just being nice.”

 

Dean nodded. “Got a description?”

 

“Mid-twenties, dark hair. Jerry said he’s real gangly, though, and he has bad skin. He’s a little awkward.”

 

“Where’s he staying?”

 

“There’s an abandoned motel on the edge of town. Nobody cared that he was staying there,” Howl said. “Folks just passing through have squatted there before.”

 

Dean considered the information, trying to get a picture of what they were up against. “We don’t want to go in guns blazing, because the kids could get hurt. It would be better to draw him out.”

 

“Having a bunch of armed men show up should be distraction enough,” Howl replied. “But if it’s not, we’ll figure something else out.”

 

Dean frowned. “What were the kids’ names again? If we’re going in after them, we’ll need to know.”

 

“Ryan and Cora,” Howl said. “They were out at my place looking at the puppies a week ago.” He shook his head. “Poor things. They won’t have anywhere to go with their mom gone. She didn’t have any relatives.”

 

Dean exchanged a look with Cas, raising his eyebrows. Cas huffed out what might have been a laugh. “They’ll have a place to go, if no one else wants to take them,” Dean said after that silent acquiescence. “What’s a couple more kids, right?”

 

Howl smiled in spite of the seriousness of the situation. “Should have known you’d offer. You’re going to have yourself a houseful.”

 

“Better a full house than an empty one,” Cas said softly, and his words echoed Dean’s thoughts exactly.

 

~~~~~

 

“No.”

 

Cas wore his “do not fuck with me because I’m an angel of the lord” look. Cas had gotten a lot more flexible over the years, but there were times when he was as unmovable as he’d been when he’d threatened to throw Dean back into hell.

 

“Cas—”

 

“I’m coming in with you,” he insisted. “Two children will need two adults. We should both go.”

 

Dean glanced over at Howl helplessly. “Howl, can you handle it?”

 

“We’ll set up the distraction, you get the kids,” Howl replied.

 

Dean handed off his rifle to one of the other men; it wouldn’t do much good in close quarters, and they wanted to get the kids out, not get into a firefight. Cas put his shotgun in the truck, and they both rechecked the rounds in the handguns.

 

Staying low to the ground, Dean and Cas moved around to the back of the old motel. The doors all faced the parking lot in the shape of an L, but every room in the one-story building had a large window at the back. The brush and tall grass had grown right up to the back wall, and he and Cas began systematically checking room by room, carefully peering through the windows, trying not to be seen.

 

At the fifth window, Dean could see the headlights from the vehicles in the parking lot flare, shining brightly, and Howl’s voice called out, “We know you’re in there, and we know you got Angela’s kids! Come out with your hands up, and we’ll give you a chance to get out of town.”

 

Cas raised his eyebrows in question, and Dean smirked and shook his head. “No chance,” he mouthed.

 

A high-pitched, reedy voice called out from inside, “Fuck that! You come any closer, and I’ll slit the little bastards’ throats now! The baby first!”

 

“Shit,” Dean whispered, creeping along the wall a little faster. He had a lock on where the fucker was now, at least.

 

Someone else shouted, “You know you’re not going to get out of there alive!”

 

“You won’t be able to kill me once I’m a demon lord!”

 

Dean’s eyebrows went up, and it was his turn to give Cas a questioning look.

 

Cas shook his head. “He’s crazy.”

 

Dean nodded, knowing that made their job a whole hell of a lot harder, because you couldn’t reason with a madman.

 

“We’ve got a witch on our side who’s going to block your summoning!” That was Ernest, and Dean had to give him credit for his quick thinking.

 

Dean popped his head up above the window, catching sight of the two kids bound and gagged on the bed, and the bad guy pacing. He sat back, leaning against the outside wall while Cas checked it.

 

“I can take the shot,” Dean whispered.

 

Cas nodded slowly. “He has a knife.”

 

“I’ll take him out before he can get to the kids.”

 

They both inched up the wall on either side of the window, and Dean cocked his gun. The glass might affect his accuracy, but it was close enough quarters that Dean didn’t think it would matter, and he didn’t want to tip the guy off. He watched as Cas leaned forward slightly, and he waited for the nod. When he got it, Dean moved quickly, squaring up in front of the window, aiming and firing, in one long breath.

 

He went down with Dean’s bullet between his eyes, and Dean watched as Cas broke the window out with an elbow. Dean took off his over-shirt and wrapped it around his hand to finish the job, and they both climbed through.

 

Dean tucked his pistol into the back of his jeans and pulled out his pocketknife. “It’s okay, Ryan,” he said softly. “We’re here to help, but I need to get that tape off of you.”

 

The boy’s eyes were wide with fear, and he wriggled away from Dean with muffled squeals.

 

“Hey, hey, buddy,” Dean said softly. “It’s okay.” Cas was already working the tape over Cora’s mouth, easing it off as gently as he could. “I’m a friend of your mom’s,” Dean continued. “I fixed her car for her. The Pontiac? The bad man is dead. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

 

Ryan stilled, but tears were running down his round cheeks, and Dean moved deliberately, trying not to scare him anymore than he was already.

 

Beside them, Cora let out a howl as Cas removed the tape, and Cas finished cutting her bonds and pulled her into his arms, making soothing noises.

 

“I’ve got you, buddy. You’re going to be fine,” Dean murmured, gently pulling the tape from Ryan’s face. The boy didn’t make a sound, and Dean cut the tape from his wrists and ankles, pulling Ryan into his arms. “I’ve got you,” he promised again.

 

Cora had begun to quiet as Cas led the way out of the motel room, opening the door and calling out, “It’s Cas! We’ve got the kids.”

 

Dean felt Ryan’s thin arms wrap around his neck, felt the shudders running through the small body, and thought, “Yeah, we do.”


	22. Rural South Dakota, Fall 2016

Dean lay on the floor where he’d fallen, still a little stunned from Sam’s sucker punch. He sat up slowly, rubbing his sore jaw. He was going to have a hell of a bruise, and he had no idea how he was going to explain it to the kids.

 

“Dad!” Ben skidded into the room, his hair still dripping from the shower, wearing only a pair of tattered cut-offs. “Are you okay? I heard yelling.”

 

“I’m fine,” Dean assured him, accepting Ben’s hand up. “Sam and I just had a little argument.”

 

“That was a _little_ argument?”

 

Dean sighed as he collapsed back onto the couch. “We’ve had worse fights.”

 

Ben stood in the middle of the living room, his coltish limbs just beginning to show signs of filling out after his last big growth spurt. Dean thought he’d probably make it to six foot in another couple of years.

 

“Where is he?” Ben asked, his expression darkening.

 

Dean scrubbed his hands over his face. “Ben—don’t be surprised if Sam packs up and leaves.”

 

Ben shook his head. “No. He’s _family_.”

 

“Sit down, son,” Dean said. For a moment, he thought Ben was going to argue with him, but Ben did as he was told. “Sam—I don’t want you to blame Sam for this.”

 

“Why not?” Ben demanded. “He hit you! And if he leaves—”

 

“If he leaves, it will be his choice,” Dean said slowly. “You can’t keep someone where they don’t want to be.”

 

Ben shook his head. “Why would he come here if he was just going to leave again?”

 

“Because he didn’t know I was alive, and he needed to see me.” Dean leaned back into the couch. “Whatever your feelings for Sam, make sure they’re yours, Ben. You don’t have to be angry on my behalf.”

 

Ben stared at the floor. “I should go finish up in the bathroom.”

 

“Okay.” Dean swallowed, feeling sick to his stomach. He wondered if it would have been better if Sam had never come. He’d long since realized that the hardest thing in the world was watching his kids get hurt, and it was worse now, somehow, because his brother was the one doing the hurting.

 

But Dean couldn’t find the anger inside himself; he kept hearing Sam’s words and the pain behind them.

 

“Dean? Are you all right?” Cas entered the living room, his brow furrowing. “Did Sam hit you?”

 

Dean rubbed his jaw reflexively. “It’s not a big deal, Cas.”

 

“He did hit you.” Cas was across the room in two strides, and he sat down next to Dean, gently tipping Dean’s jaw to get a better look at the bruise. “I’ll get some ice.”

 

Dean didn’t bother arguing with him, because he knew the alternative was Cas going after Sam, and while Sam might have the height and bulk advantage, Cas could be a sneaky motherfucker in a fight.

 

Dean allowed Cas to press the ice pack against his jaw, putting his hand over Cas’. “Really, I’m fine.”

 

“You’re lucky he didn’t break your jaw,” Cas said tightly. “I’m going—”

 

“You’re not going to do jack,” Dean interrupted. “Look, we had it out. We both know that was coming, and—hell, Cas, I don’t know. He’s hurt.”

 

“He hurt _you_,” Cas growled, and Dean couldn’t help finding that as sexy as hell, even after all these years.

 

Dean smiled. “I’m going to be fine.”

 

Cas nodded tightly. “I’ll let it go for now.”

 

“I think he’s going to leave,” Dean said quietly.

 

“I’m sorry, Dean. I know you wanted this to work.”

 

“Yeah, but I never thought it would.” Dean rested his head on the back of the couch. “I gave up on Sam a long time ago. Maybe that’s what hurts the most.”

 

~~~~~

 

Sam stuffed his few belongings into his duffel bag, then stopped and dropped down on the extra-long twin bed, burying his head in his hands.

 

Where the hell was he going to go? He had a little money saved, but very little in the way of gas. He could maybe reach Rapid City, but then he’d be stuck unless he found a job. And then what?

 

He was 33 years old, half-blind, and he creaked like an old man on cold mornings—and if he ran now, he’d never stop.

 

Sam heard the ladder to the loft groan, and he glanced up as Ben entered the bedroom they had been sharing. Ben’s face was tight and set, and Sam could see anger in the line of his shoulders and the thin slash of his mouth.

 

He could see Dean in Ben’s face, too, and for a moment, Sam hated himself for hurting his brother again, and for hurting Ben.

 

“So, that’s it? You’re leaving?”

 

“Ben, it’s complicated,” Sam began.

 

Ben snorted. “That’s what people always say when they don’t want to explain. You and Dad had a fight, you hit him, and now you’re going to run.”

 

The summary was simplistic, if true, and Sam rubbed his sweaty palms on the legs of his jeans. “Yeah, okay. That’s close enough.” Sam looked away, staring at the blue strip of sky through the window on the other side of the room. “I don’t think I can stay. I don’t think Dean would want me to stay.”

 

“Dad always tells us that if you fuck up, you stick around to make it right,” Ben said, his chin lifted in a direct challenge.

 

Sam rose and grabbed his duffel bag. If he was going to leave, it had to be now, before he could think too hard about it, before he could lose his nerve. “You don’t need me here, Ben.”

 

“What the fuck does that have to do with anything?” Ben cried. “We didn’t _need_ Ryan and Cora, but they’re part of the family now. Henry and Mary—it was the same thing. You’re _family_! That’s all that matters.”

 

Sam stood there, knowing that he’d have to push past Ben to get to the ladder, to leave and hit the road again.

 

This was the chance he’d lost with Laura’s death, Sam realized. How many times had he regretted parting ways with Dean, and how many times had he felt as though he was being punished for just that decision?

 

He dropped the bag, and sat back down on the bed. Sam pressed the heel of his hand into his good eye, and a minute later felt the bed sag next to him.

 

“Why did you hit him?”

 

“Have you ever punched Henry before?” Sam asked, his voice muffled.

 

There was a moment of silence, and Ben admitted, “No, but I’ve wanted to.”

 

“Then you’re a better man than I am.”

 

“Dad always told me not to hit somebody smaller than me. Henry’s still smaller.”

 

Sam let out a choked laugh. “Everybody is smaller than me.”

 

“So, are you going to leave?”

 

Sam shook his head. “No, I—I’m going to stay. Do you think I could have some time?”

 

“Sure.” Ben paused. “Do you want me to tell Dad?”

 

“Yeah, if you want.”

 

Sam felt Ben’s presence for a moment longer, and then Ben’s footsteps echoed over the wooden floor.

 

He realized that he was staying, that he was going to try to make things work—Sam had just signed up for the long haul. He knew where he was going to be tomorrow, and the next day, and the next.

 

The knowledge paralyzed him.

 

He had no idea how long he sat there until he heard a rapping on the wooden floor, and Cas entered the room. “So, you’re still here.”

 

Cas’ tone made it a statement, not a question, and Sam winced. “Did you come here to kick my ass?”

 

“Actually, I came to see if you wanted dinner,” Cas replied. “Although kicking your ass is not yet off the menu.”

 

Sam conjured up a brief smile. “I’d probably deserve it.”

 

“It’s true, you would.” Cas’ expression lightened somewhat. “Come have dinner, Sam.”

 

Sam hesitated, then rose from the bed. “Yeah, okay. Right behind you.”

 

~~~~~

 

Dean pulled his hand back quickly as he dropped the first piece of fish into the hot oil as it popped and sputtered. He turned as Henry and Casey came into the room. “Set the table, please.”

 

“It’s Ben’s turn,” Henry protested.

 

Dean raised his eyebrows. “What have I said about that?”

 

“That in a family, nobody should keep score,” Henry muttered. “It’s still Ben’s turn.”

 

“And I’m sure Ben will make it up to you,” Dean replied. “Set the table.”

 

Casey swiped her hair out of her eyes and began setting plates out. He was grateful that she and Henry got along so well, since Henry often felt like the odd man out in the face of Ben and Mary, and Ryan and Cora’s relationships.  With Casey, that had changed.

 

“You guys have fun today?” Dean asked. He and Cas had taken the younger kids into town for a lesson in math and science from Julia, while he fixed cars and Cas visited the sick for Pastor Joe.

 

Henry shrugged. “We have homework.”

 

“Let me know if you need help,” Dean replied. “Casey? You doing okay with lessons?”

 

She nodded. “I liked it.”

 

Dean smiled, grateful for that, considering how far behind she was, according to Cas and Julia. “Let one of us know if you need help.”

 

“Sam can probably help if you ask him nicely,” Ben said as he came into the room, his tone light, but the set of his jaw suggesting he was still angry.

 

Dean didn’t think Ben would ever look at Sam quite the same way, but that was between them. It was enough for him to have peace in the house.

 

Mary arrived on Ben’s heels, Cora on her hip, and she helped Cora wash her hands. For a moment, the kitchen was too full, of children, of voices, of laughter, and Dean thought it was the best kind of chaos.

 

Dean paused in his fish-frying to boost Ryan up to wash his hands, giving the boy a quick hug as he put him down. “Sit down. Supper’s almost ready.”

 

Ryan’s quick, bright grin was all the reply Dean needed, and he sat while Ben filled mismatched glasses and Mason jars with water or milk. Chaos sorted itself out as the kids sat down, and Cas entered the kitchen just as Dean put the last of the fish and fries on the table.

 

“Sam?” Dean asked in a low voice.

 

“Right behind me,” Cas replied evenly.

 

Dean sat slowly, stretching out his bad leg. “In one piece?”

 

“Yes.” Cas helped Cora fill her plate.

 

Sam slipped in a moment later, quiet and red-eyed, and Dean said nothing, just passed him the fish.

 

“You two had a good day fishing, I can see,” Cas said quietly, looking at Ben.

 

Ben glanced at Sam, and then quickly away. “Yeah, we did. Better than Henry usually does,” he added with a forced smile. Dean knew that look; Ben would pretend that things between him and Sam were okay for the moment, but it would take him time to work through the day’s events.

 

“Hey!” Henry protested. “You take that back!”

 

Dean’s eyes met Sam’s, then he looked at Ben. “You guys had a good day. Henry, you’ll get a chance to beat Ben’s record another time.”

 

The rest of dinner passed without incident—no one threw food, threw a tantrum, or started name-calling, all of which had occurred at some point in the past. Dean had long since discovered that playing peacekeeper between his dad and brother prepared him really well for fatherhood.

 

And as the family peacemaker, he was going to have to have another talk with Sam, but he was going to ease the way first.

 

Dean pulled Sam aside as soon as dinner was over and handed him a bottle of Jack—the best label he had, the one he’d been saving for a special occasion—and two glasses. “I’ll be out as soon as I can get the kids started on their homework.”

 

Sam opened his mouth, his expression a silent refusal, but he abruptly shut his mouth and took the bottle. “See you then.”

 

Dean helped Cas clean up the kitchen, and then Cas put a hand on his shoulder. “Go, Dean. Talk to your brother.”

 

“The kids—”

 

“You don’t think I can handle it?” Cas inquired.

 

Dean laughed. “I know you can handle it. I just—”

 

“Go. I’ll wait for you.”

 

Dean pulled him into a long, sweet kiss, and Cas clasped his face between his hands, his tongue teasing Dean’s with the promise of more later. “I may not be up for much when I get there.”

 

“Then I’ll take a rain check. Go talk to Sam, Dean.”

 

“I love you.” He didn’t say it often enough, but Dean meant it. He meant every word.

 

Cas smiled, and pulled him in for another long, slow kiss. “I know. I feel the same for you.”

 

“Talk to you later?”

 

“I’ll wait up.”

 

Dean grinned, pressed one more hard kiss to Cas’ lips, and headed outside. He found Sam sitting on the hood of the Willys, the bottle and glasses sitting next to him. Sam stirred slightly, pouring each of them a drink. From the amount of liquid still in the bottle, Sam had started drinking without him.

 

Good. That might make things easier.

 

Dean grunted his thanks, then sipped slowly at his own drink.

 

“Good stuff,” Sam said, breaking the silence between them.

 

Dean shrugged. “I’ve been saving it for a special occasion. It was part of Bobby’s stash.”

 

“Did you—how did he die?” Sam asked.

 

Dean took another long sip. “He got sick, and then he just, I don’t know. Gave up? Official cause of death was a heart attack, though.”

 

“I should have been there.”

 

Dean didn’t respond. As far as he was concerned, he’d said what needed to be said about that. Sam knew how he felt.

 

Dean waited until Sam finished his next drink before asking, “What did you mean earlier?”

 

When Sam didn’t respond, Dean figured he’d never know, that Sam wouldn’t give him any more information, but then Sam slammed back the rest of his drink. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse from the alcohol and full of emotion.

 

“There was a girl. Her name was Laura, and I got her pregnant. It was a mistake, but I thought—I thought I could make up for things, you know?”

 

“Yeah, I know.” And Dean did. Sam wasn’t the only Winchester who bore a load of guilt. “What happened?”

 

“Miscarriage. It was late in her pregnancy, and we—I couldn’t get her to the doctor in time.” Sam poured another drink and slammed it back. “It would have been a girl. That’s what the doctor told me.”

 

“Shit, Sam. I’m sorry.”

 

“If I’d just—”

 

“Water under the bridge.” Dean finished his whiskey and poured another. “Woulda, coulda, shoulda, Sam. At some point, you have to let that go.”

 

“I don’t know if I can.”

 

Dean nodded, but said no more on the subject. Sam would have to work things out in his own time and his own way.

 

“I didn’t get a chance to ask you how you wound up with the other kids,” Sam said. “I mean, I understand about Ben, and I was here for Casey, but what about the others?”

 

Dean gave Sam a half-smile. “It’s quite a story, actually. Probably is going to take more than one night to tell.”

 

Sam met Dean’s eyes, and the expression on his face was the closest to happiness Dean had seen in a long time. “Then I guess it’s a good thing I’m staying.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Providence](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4271295) by [saraid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saraid/pseuds/saraid)




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